


Ex Post Facto

by Cassatt



Category: Law & Order
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassatt/pseuds/Cassatt





	Ex Post Facto

_McCoy/Green_  
Rated FRT  
Set after _Burn Card_ , Season 18, 2008  
Disclaimer to Wolf & Co., for they own Law & Order and the characters herein. I own the writing.  
Originally written and published in the zine, Dyad #26, in the spring of 2013. Web published in spring of 2015. 

_Copyright 2013 Cassatt_

  
Jack McCoy knew precisely when it happened: 2003. It was in March, the month when winter or spring can hit on any given day. He had long forgotten the exact date, much less the day of the week; he had long forgotten the hour, but he remembered it was early evening. He remembered heavy clouds drifting across the buildings, softening the city to a washed out, pale gray. He remembered thinking that it might rain, that he was without umbrella, and that he wanted to walk to dinner somewhere, and not take a cab or the subway. And, he remembered the surrounding circumstances with absolute clarity. 

At the end of a frustrating day in court, he and Detective Ed Green had walked out of the courthouse together, like many days before that and many more since. Detective Green slowed at the top of the stairs; Jack assumed the man wanted to talk, and walked them away from the foot traffic, under the portico. The portico lamps were not yet lit. Green had spent the prior couple of hours on the stand, where the defense attorney accused him of threatening the life of the eighteen-year-old, black defendant during interrogation. The young man had confessed to shooting a cop. The accusation against Green had appeared to gain some traction in the courtroom with a mostly black jury, which, on some level, had not surprised Jack. The original case had devolved into a racially-charged, complicated mess - why shouldn't the trial prove the same? 

Green said, his tone almost a plea, "I didn't threaten him." 

Jack was surprised the man needed reassurance that he was believed. That Jack believed him. He had never once doubted Green's interrogation was by the book. "When a jury's involved," he said, "the truth doesn't always matter. Especially this jury." 

Green's eyes blazed. "What are you saying - especially _this jury_? What's different about _this jury_ that they wouldn't recognize the _truth_?!" 

Jack's urge was to bite back, to tell him to cut the racial sensitivity, but he let the retort die on his tongue. The two of them rarely argued, and for some reason he cared to keep it that way. "Halpert wants to show how irresponsible the Force is when dealing with the black community. He gave you the brush, Detective, and you painted the exact picture he was looking for--" 

"So, can't you paint a different picture?!" 

He tried to be gentle in the face of Green's frustration, and need. "How? I don't have any more witnesses." 

Green sighed; his entire demeanor changed - he looked stricken, like he no longer had the strength to fight against the weight of his responsibilities. He broke their eye contact with a turn of his head, and stared through the pillars to the hazy-gray city beyond. 

That was when it happened, precisely, and without warning. Jack felt a physical jolt deep in his solar plexus - a sensation that settled in his chest, and stayed. At the time, Jack was thrown by the intensity. The pounding heartbeat. The pure ache of desire. He couldn't speak for a long moment. Maybe it was a simple, stress-induced spike in his heart rate. Maybe it was a bolt from above, should he still believe in that concept, which he did not. Maybe it was a moment of insanity that was anything but momentary. On impulse, he offered to buy Ed a drink, because he could not leave him there, alone, to stew, as much as he could not pass up the opportunity to make Ed feel a little better. 

In the bar, they talked for nearly two hours over drinks and then dinner, and as the evening wore on, Jack's previous opinion and view of Ed shifted and morphed like quicksilver spilled on the dark wood table between them. The streetwise, cocky, ardent supporter of the underdog, Homicide cop became a man who was smart, passionate, well-read, private, and intriguing. By the time they said their good-byes, Jack still felt something deep in his chest. As he walked toward the subway, he was forced to accept that now _he_ had need, and he had want, and he had thoughts and emotions that could not exist, much less ever be expressed. 

That first night it had seemed overwhelming. Lying in bed, the more he thought about it, it also seemed... bizarre. He had never experienced anything remotely close to a jolt like that in all of his years of dating, marriage, affairs, one night stands, whatever, women or men. He had no way to judge it. He remembered that it had been a long night; he hardly slept. Mulling it over in the small hours of morning, he had assumed his feelings would be, ultimately, temporary. Yet, over time, Jack's reaction to Ed's presence had dimmed, but it had never ended. He had become so accustomed to his emotional response that he sometimes wondered what it would honestly _feel_ _like_ to exist without it. He imagined he would feel bereft, that he might even experience a grieving period, that at some point farther beyond _that_ he might look back and wonder what the hell had happened to him in the first place. 

~*~##~*~ 

Five years after that fateful March evening, Jack was the acting District Attorney, and Detective Ed Green was on trial for murder. It was horribly, excruciatingly wrong, but there was very little Jack could do since he had to remain as impartial as possible. Or, at least maintain a public face of impartiality. His Executive Assistant District Attorney, Mike Cutter, did not appear to have that same problem - he seemed hell bent on a conviction, and did not care who knew it. Privately, Jack refused to believe that Ed had committed a cold-blooded, unjustified murder. It made no sense. Privately, he had moments of fury - at Ed, at himself; he should have tried to be a better friend; he should have taken an hour out of his busy day and sat Ed down on the leather couch and forced him to spill his guts. Ed was frustratingly short on details, or motives, and was holding himself like-- Like a man with nothing to lose. The attitude was infuriating, truth be told. It took all of Jack's considerable will power to sit back and let Mike do his job. Impartiality was sometimes a bitch. 

##

In the middle of the trial, Detective Lupo and an Internal Affairs detective came to Jack's office to report they had found a woman. A woman Ed knew in the past, when he was gambling a few years before, and spoke to on the night of the murder. There was a glimmer of hope that she might have some connection to this mess, some explanation that Ed refused to impart, given that she gambled, and given her and the victim's connection to the underground gambling club where he was killed. Jack's instinct was to force Ed's hand, and told Lupo to bring her in for questioning. He did not, however, trust the IA guy enough to speak further in front of him, and waited until the detectives were gone before calling Mike and Connie back to his office. 

"If their lead pans out," Jack said, "and this woman is involved, I want you to bring Green in, offer to talk about a plea, anything to get him here. Then bring her in, with him in the room. I want you to break him--" 

"Jack, you can't mean that," Connie said. "Break him? He's--" 

"No," Jack said, shaking his head. "Break his silence. Maybe he's protecting her; maybe his stubborn refusal to talk is out of fear; maybe-- Whatever the details are, enough is _enough_. He's a good man, damnit - I'm not going to keep pretending otherwise." He pointed at Mike. "You find out what the hell is going on, Mike. Then fix it. Detective Green-- _Ed_ is worth the effort." He stared at them both. "Is that understood?" 

Mike returned the gaze with an unreadable expression. "I understand." Connie nodded with a small smile. Mike said, "For the record? I agree with you." Connie shot him a glance; Mike noticed. "I _do_ ," he said. 

Whether or not he actually did, Jack did not care. He knew Mike well enough to know that he would do his best to please the boss. That was good enough. 

##

Jack watched what happened in the conference room from the inside of his old office. Ed and his attorney were there on the premise of a plea offer. Jack couldn't hear voices, of course, but he could read facial expressions, and given how easy it was to read Ed--most times--this vantage point would more than suffice. When the woman was brought in, the drama played out as Jack had expected: Ed was furious that she was in the room; he was protective of her and tried to stop her from talking; when she quieted, he was confident he had things back under control; and he was furious again when it appeared he was losing that control. It looked like the woman told Mike and Connie the real story, while Ed looked resigned, displeased. Curiously, if Jack was seeing things correctly, Ed appeared hurt and confused when it was over. If Ed thought that Jack's office was going to let him destroy his life without putting up a fight on his behalf.... That was sad in the extreme. If Ed thought he had meant so little to the DA's office, to Jack's _own_ career.... That was yet another failure on Jack's part. 

Connie opened the door while he was still standing there, watching Ed and his attorney talk to Mike. 

"Maybe you should talk to him," she said. 

"Which him?" 

"Ed. He didn't get why we all worked so hard to save him." She sighed softly. "He was genuinely... _surprised_. Or, perplexed. Mike told him what you said, that he was worth it. I'm not sure he really heard." She looked over her shoulder. Ed was shaking Mike's hand; his expression was now completely unreadable. 

"I'll talk to him, soon," he said, watching Ed walk toward the elevators. "So, what's the complete story?" 

"She got in over her head, embezzled from her employer; the deceased owner of the club had her prostituting to pay her debts, threatened her and her baby...." Connie shook her head. 

"Ed was the white knight," Jack said, relief mixed with depression settling over him. He really should have tried harder. "What I can do now is sign the paperwork to drop the charges." His throat closed suddenly. He nodded once at Connie and left for his office. 

##

Jack did not realize it then, but watching through two panes of glass as Ed got his life back would be the last time he saw the man. Connie came into Jack's office a few hours after he had signed the relevant paperwork, to say that Lupo called to tell her Ed had resigned. Just like that. Connie was upset, wondering if there was something they could do, knowing there was nothing, really, but it didn't feel right to her. Jack could only numbly shake his head, and reply with something about how it was up to Green what he did with his life, even if Jack wanted to do exactly what she expected - convince Ed to stay. His words were hollow; he knew it. Connie seemed disappointed when she walked out. 

##

One week later, at the end of another unproductive, frustrating day, Jack was reviewing a case the Fraud Section was putting together, making notes of points to discuss with the ADA. His pen ran out of ink. He spun and threw it with force at the trash can four feet away; it bounced off the metal rim and landed under his desk chair. He muttered an epithet and stood, shoving his chair hard enough for it to slam into the built-ins behind him, causing him to spew another epithet. 

"Whoa," Connie said as she approached the desk, "maybe I should come back later?" 

He shook his head and waved her in before picking up the dead pen. He walked it to the trash can. It landed on end in his lunch detritus. 

Connie cleared her throat. "I have another bit of news regarding Ed Green. He's leaving New York, and moving to California." 

Jack's stomach dived. California? Any further west and he'd be in Hawaii, or Asia. California? He pulled up his chair, and sat, and managed to ask her if she knew why, or what had happened. 

"Lupo said Ed claims he just wants a fresh start. He has friends in San Francisco." She shrugged. "I thought maybe he was going to reconsider law enforcement, and Lupo even tried to talk him into law school, but, he's leaving instead." 

Once again, he was at a loss for a decent response. He thanked her for letting him know, and said he had a meeting, though that was a lie. She left him alone. After a few minutes of staring at the paperwork in front of him and comprehending none of it, he opened his lower desk drawer, though it was not yet four-thirty. He retrieved the bottle, and glass, and poured a healthy finger. He downed it in one gulp. There was a throbbing in his chest. An ache. Of surprising intensity. 

~*~##~*~ 

Ed opened his laptop on the diner's table, turning the screen away from the glare of early morning sun. The waitress brought him coffee, finally, ten minutes after taking his order. This truck stop and motel place really was for shit, but, maybe truck drivers with lighter skin than his got better service and found it perfect; he had no idea when it came down to it. He was twenty miles outside of Des Moines, a flat highway behind him and more ahead, surrounded by nothing but asphalt, semis, a couple of RVs, and a few trees gathered behind the motel. He actually had one outside of his bathroom window. A room with a view. 

He downloaded email with the same trepidation he had felt since New York. Hearing from friends and family might not be a good way to start the day, so he continued to ignore anyone he felt like ignoring. Why not? He could do as he pleased. He was gone with no plans to speak of, and most definitely no plans to return to New York. There were certain family obligations that would always be hanging over his head, but for now his mother understood his need to leave. That is what she told him. She seemed sincere. 

There was an email in his inbox that surprised him, from someone he had expected to never talk to again. That had not been an easy expectation to live with; it was a realistic one, and a necessary one. Certain colleagues he would keep in touch with, others he had to let go of. There were probably rational reasons for why people ended up in either category; he had no idea what those reasons were. He was going on pure gut reaction. Recriminations, and apologies, and sincere gestures, and anything else that required him to delve deeper than about an inch below the surface was beyond him. He was running on fumes. So, here was an email from Jack McCoy, from his work addy, and even though Ed's cursor hovered over the Delete button as he sipped some coffee, his curiosity finally won out. 

The content actually brought up a smile; he could feel it form, and it almost felt normal. Jack wanted to take him to dinner before he left New York; he also offered a professional hand by way of a recommendation should Ed decide to return to law enforcement. Thirty seconds after reading it, Ed's stomach began to churn. Apparently, killing a man did not affect Jack's opinion of him... and, how could that possibly be true? The language Jack had used in his Dismissal Motion--"justifiable homicide in defense of a third party"--even if Ed firmly believed that description, and knew in his heart it was accurate, he could not firmly believe that Jack felt the same way. Not Jack the man. The Jack he knew just... wouldn't think that. When Ed tried to converge his reality with Jack's belief system, honestly tried to make those two things fit together into some kind of whole, sensical picture, his mind shut down. Shut the fuck down with a loud slam in his head. _Whomp_. Done. 

Either way, he was in Des Moines already with no chance to have dinner with the man.... But.... It would have been nice. It could have been nice. Could have been a lot of things. For that matter, Ed could have passed up the chance to work Homicide. He could have got his Master's degree. He could have.... He stared out the window at a trucker checking his tires. That guy had something concrete to do, something straightforward, and he was his own boss. Just him and the highway. Ed sighed aloud. 

The waitress brought his breakfast, setting it on the table without a smile. It looked surprisingly edible, even the omelet, and suddenly he was hungry. She asked if he wanted more coffee; he nodded. The first bite proved that simply because a place looks well-worn, with cracks in the vinyl upholstery, and scratches in the flatware, that does not mean the food will be sub-par. Even for a man from New York City, where he can eat anything at any time of day or night, much of it stellar. This omelet was delicious - light and fluffy, with melted cheddar and fresh mushrooms. 

Ed hit Reply and composed an email to Jack while he ate. He rewrote it twice before sending. It was important to strike the right tone. Carefree was what he aimed for. He hoped he succeeded. 

##

Wyoming was different from Nebraska, and arguably better than Iowa in one respect: the scenery was more than mile after mile of monotonous farmland. Ed had even witnessed a tiny tornado-looking twister thing that skipped around a field on the leading edge of a thunderstorm. It couldn't have been taller than five feet. Plus, he was almost to Utah, then Nevada, and then California; he would be in San Francisco by the weekend if he continued this pace, though his ass was becoming numb and his legs were aching and he was seriously debating a cut back of hours behind the wheel. 

This motel and truck stop wasn't too bad; it was clean at least. The bath towel was bigger than a washcloth, which automatically lifted the place a step above the last. He sat on the bed against the headboard, his laptop where it belonged, and checked emails like he did every day, morning and evening. Some friends and family must have been disappointed in a lack of progress reports from him, he was being peppered with so many questions. For those who had never set foot outside of the immediate northeast, he supposed the interest was warranted. He had never seen the states west of Ohio that he was driving through, and, if pressed, he could say he was content with his original choice to drive instead of fly and ship his shit. Yeah, it was tough going, alone. So what. He was used to alone. 

Ed continued to sort emails into Answer and Ignore, sometimes even Skip Entirely Without Reading. Here was another one from Lupes - before opening it he vowed that if the guy made another damned apology he would stick him in purgatory for a month. There was nothing overtly apologetic, only a joke Lupes had heard from Shelby in the Property Room. Ed was pretty sure his old partner, Lennie, was actually its originator; it _was_ funny. He smiled for a full five seconds. And, damn, here was a reply from Jack McCoy, from what must be his personal addy; Ed opened it without hesitation. 

Jack wanted a rain check on dinner; he wanted to know if Ed was going to abandon the Knicks for the Golden State Warriors; he mentioned a few places in San Francisco he knew of that had good food; he wanted to know what Ed's specific plans were in regard to work. Ed was initially surprised that Jack would know anything at all about San Francisco, but, on reflection, he assumed that as a lawyer the man had been out west for one Bar Association convention or another. Lawyers did that kind of thing. A rain check, huh? Sure, why the hell not? Five years from now, when Ed returned to New York, they could do dinner and try to find something to talk about. But, the _Warriors?_ What the fuck was Jack thinking? Ed hit Reply. 

##

The tenth floor of the DA's office was gradually getting quieter as one ADA or another shoved files into a briefcase and headed for the elevators. Jack heard the shift through his open door, as usual, and after saying "good night" to Ida he poured himself a drink, turned his chair to the computer, and connected with his personal email account. He used webmail as a precautionary measure to keep his work computer clean of private correspondence. Of course, he could have waited until he was home. If he was so inclined to wait. Which he wasn't. 

Emails appeared in his inbox, one by one, and when he saw what he had been hoping to see he smiled around another sip of Scotch. He opened Ed's email. The man accepted the rain check as almost an aside, if Jack was reading the tone right. More pressing to Ed was the mere idea that he would ever consider himself anything but a New York sports' aficionado. California's sports' teams were, as a whole, awful; the fans even worse. Ed would support everyone except the Mets until his dying day. He had more thoughts on the topic - much of it tongue in cheek. Jack chuckled to himself as he reread the email twice. He wondered how Ed's San Francisco friends fared as sports' fans, in Ed's estimation. He wondered who they were. He wondered how Ed knew them. 

Jack composed a reply, thinking about Wyoming. He would like to see something like Ed had, the day before. The only tornado Jack had ever witnessed was near his grandparents' home in the western part of Illinois when he was ten; it had scared the shit out of him. To travel a few of the country's wilder states on his motorcycle would be a dream come true. Montana was supposed to be beautiful. And Utah. The last time he was in San Francisco he had almost taken a day, rented a bike, and driven the coast highway for a few hours. In some ways, he envied Ed's freedom. He hoped Ed felt, by now, that the freedom was deserved. 

##

In hindsight, Ed thought that taking an extra few days to drive north from Wyoming and miss Nevada entirely might have been a better plan. He was halfway between Nevada's borders because he could not drive the twelve or fourteen hours it would take to get into California. No matter how much coffee he drank. However, exiting 80 in Winnemucca he encountered four casinos, right off the interstate. As if the town expected tourists to stay ten yards from the highway, gambling, for the duration of their visit. Ed felt a familiar pull as he drove past. The pull continued as he checked into the motel, as he filled the ice bucket, as he washed his face and hands and changed his shirt. 

He expected the pull to diminish over the course of an hour or so; he had been through the program; he knew how to deal. It didn't diminish. It nagged at him, and more so when he left the motel on a walk toward a pizza place the motel owner recommended. His legs needed a walk, and it was a balmy, dry-aired evening, in a flat, mostly rural town where there was little of interest to see other than the mountain range and a vibrant sunset. And two more casinos in the next block. Ed stopped. 

He had few options for calming down, for regrouping. It was hard, alone, out here in the middle of nowhere, having had minimal human contact for nearly a week. Shit, a man could go crazy, like being in solitary confinement. One option was to call his old sponsor, but they hadn't talked to each other in almost two years, and for all Ed knew the guy was way off the wagon by now. Instead, Ed could call a friend, call his buds in Frisco, or one in New York, but they would want to know what was going on, and then give him some serious shit for even contemplating a casino, and on and on until he hung up in frustration and went to the blackjack tables. 

There was a movie theater across the street, showing something that had been in New York months back, but Ed never had the urge to see it. It would be a good distraction, and they might have dogs in the concession stand. Dogs, popcorn, a soda - he checked his wallet for cash. He probably didn't have enough, and he was ravenous, and he had been psyched for pizza and a beer. At the pizza place in the same block as two casinos. He flipped open his phone and looked through the contacts. He almost slapped himself upside the head when he saw Jack's number - it was the perfect choice. The man had very little, if any, emotional investment in him. He could merely talk for however long it took to feel his feet on the pavement, and remember that he was a part of the normal human race, and not a recovering gambling addict, or any other thing he was. It wasn't yet ten o'clock in New York. He dialed, a knot in the pit of his stomach. 

Jack answered within a few rings. "Ed? This is a surprise. How are you? Where are you?" 

Ed breathed a sigh of relief. The man sounded pleased. His voice was good to hear. "I'm in Winnemucca, Nevada. I'm good. Heading to dinner. Wha's up with you?" 

"Winnemucca? You mean there really is such a place? Maybe you'll run into Mother Mucca," Jack said with a chuckle. "You probably don't know who the hell she is." 

Ed smiled, for real. "I do. _Tales of the City_. Winnemucca happens to be halfway across the state, a good stopping point, with some nice places to stay overnight, but, yeah, I couldn't resist it. So, you liked Tales?" 

"I did. Saw all of them...." Ed strolled up the sidewalk while he and Jack talked about the television series, while he talked about the places from the series in San Francisco that he hoped to see, while they chatted about inconsequentials. He stood outside the pizza place for a few minutes as the conversation wound down, and when they said their good-byes, he almost thanked Jack because he felt so much better. Except that would have necessitated an explanation: an admission that he had almost failed, almost succumbed. Maybe some day he would explain, in an email, on the phone, at their rain-checked dinner. He took a deep, relaxed breath. Man, the pizza smelled good; he went in, his stomach growling loudly. 

~*~##~*~ 

It was two days since Ed had arrived at his friend Sean's apartment door, and by now, he was unpacked and settled into the second bedroom. The flat was a decent size, in a four-plex, west of downtown, a few blocks from the park and about a mile and a half from the Pacific. The most striking difference between this city and the one Ed had left was the bright sunlight. His apartment in New York had large windows overlooking the street and he had never seen half the light that was in this north-facing bedroom. It made it difficult to sleep in the afternoon, which was all he wanted to do. Another striking difference was the fresh air. That morning, he had actually smelled the ocean drifting through the windows as he awoke. 

There was one other difference, a glaring reminder that he was no longer in New York. After Sean had left for work, Ed walked to a nearby coffee place for some breakfast. Most of the people he saw to and from said "good morning" to him, often with an accompanying smile or nod. The people in the coffee place smiled. The counter guy chatted him up, noting that Ed was new to the establishment, and when Ed admitted his origins, the guy actually said "Welcome to San Francisco," with a touch of enthusiasm. It was unnerving. It was not how urban dwellers were supposed to behave. Ed wondered if it was merely because this wasn't "downtown," which according to Sean was the Financial District, tourista area, shopping area, and fancy restaurant area. There had to be more snark there, where it was busier. 

That evening when Sean came home from his job in said Financial District, he told Ed that the high-rise's management was looking to hire a security guard. Sean thought it was a perfect job for Ed. He had even told someone that his friend was ex-NYPD, and they wanted to see Ed for an interview the next day. 

Ed did not respond for a long minute. His initial reaction was wholly unenthusiastic. He did not want to work nights; he did not want to wear another uniform; he did not want to be forced into a schedule. He wanted to sleep. 

"Thanks, dude," Ed said finally, "but, I don't think so." 

Sean removed his suit jacket and hung it over a kitchen chair, loosened his tie. He took a beer out of the fridge, and popped the top. "Eddie, you know you can stay here forever--" 

"Hey, I'll pay my share, don't worry." 

"Have I said I'm worried? I know you're good for it. I trust you. But, you've got to make some plans. For your own sanity." Sean took a swig. He rubbed a tired hand over his head; the natural hair twists bounced then returned to their original positions. Ed was not used to Sean's new, longer hair styled in twists, and was slightly mystified how the accounting firm was good with the look. 

Ed sighed aloud. Sean was right, he knew. It had been more than three weeks since he quit the Force, but, still he was unable to formulate any concrete ideas about work, a job, an interest, not to mention a new career. Floating along was way too dangerous - too easy to get sucked back to the poker tables. He knew that. He knew every last fact and potential pitfall. However, he wanted to sleep for the next month, and then, maybe, figure it out. 

##

Jack returned from lunch to his usual hefty stack of mail to read and correspondence to sign. Before sitting down to it all, he wanted a cup of coffee, so he did a quick sort-through to see what was in store for a caffeinated brain. Halfway down the stack his insides lurched. He held a legal-sized envelope marked "Personal," from the _Paradise Motel_ in Winnemucca, Nevada. He ripped it open. Inside were three things: a flyer for the Run-A-Mucca motorcycle derby on Memorial Day weekend; a flyer for a forty-four hour softball game in July; a postcard from "Beautiful Winnemucca," on which Ed had scrawled, "Not beautiful, and there's no Blue Moon brothel -- Ed." Jack smiled. 

Ed's unexpected phone call had done something, inside of him, something more profound than the simple conversation probably warranted. All of the bad that had happened over the past few months seemed to dissipate, or, at least his reactions to it dissipated. The heaviness he felt when he thought about Ed was gone. Simply because of a normal, friendly, chatty conversation. Like it used to be between them. And now, he and Ed were emailing every couple of days, and it was good, and yes, it made him miss Ed even more, but that was okay. He was accustomed to those feelings. 

His bulletin board in this office was nothing like his old one - for propriety's sake he had been forced to clean up much of the personal in favor of more conservative decor. No cartoons, no funny notes, no bumper sticker proclaiming Lincoln's wisdom. But, what the hell - he turned around and stuck the postcard on the board above his computer. He would keep it there for at least a week. He smiled. Beautiful Winnemucca. 

~*~##~*~ 

"Thanks," Ed said to the Starbuck's barrista, before taking the vente latte to the prep counter. After two months in the city, he still was not ready to say "good morning" at eight a.m., but he had never begrudged a "thank you" to any worker. Ed slipped a sleeve on the cardboard cup and secured a lid. There were basic things he appreciated about the job at the Financial District high-rise, down the street: he worked solo; he was on days; there was good, if expensive, food nearby. He was almost a month into this gig, and, yeah, it paid crap but it was money, and it was mostly brainless work, and it afforded him time to read and yet still had _some_ interaction with people. At least he didn't have to dip too severely into his savings, now. He could go out with friends, and he could afford an internet connection and a BlackBerry. He could put food in the fridge, and occasional gas in the car. It was somewhat surprising to him exactly how basic his life had become. Surprising, too, that he did not mind it in the least. 

Most of the time his interactions with the public consisted of greeting those people who chose to meet his eye, or those who appeared lost and had not yet found the building's directory. The "security" aspect of the job was minimal. His employers expected him to use whatever cop's instinct he had developed to notice suspicious behavior, or maybe the bulge of a weapon somewhere. So far, they seemed satisfied with him. 

By ten o'clock the morning lobby rush was over; Ed had nearly finished his coffee. He checked email again, disappointed to see the inbox unchanged - he expected to see something from Jack. It had been a few days, and in Ed's mind they were having one long, extended conversation about whether or not Jack would run for election as the District Attorney. Since Jack had been promoted on an emergency basis when Arthur Branch left unexpectedly, he was now facing the prospect of an up or down vote by the citizens of Manhattan. Ed was waiting to hear the man's final decision, waiting to understand what the ultimate issue was, because there was an undercurrent that he could not pinpoint, and it bothered him. When he did think about New York--which was not often--it seemed inconceivable to him that Jack McCoy would not be in the DA's office. Nobody could steward that place like Jack did. He was light years better than Branch, in Ed's opinion. It made no sense that Jack would choose to give it up now. 

The outside door opened and Ed looked up to see the FedEx delivery guy with a stack of document mailers under an arm. A wide smile on his handsome, chiseled, tanned face. Ed could admit the guy was hot, especially in shorts, like today. Problem was, he knew it. Ed stood, readying the sign-in sheet. 

"Hey," Ed said with a nod when the man reached his counter. 

FedEx winked. "Goin' up to twelve. Again." He signed his name and scribbled the time. "Bet you're tired of seeing me." He winked again. 

Ed kept himself from sighing aloud. "Breaks up my morning," he said with as little inflection as possible. There was no use in encouraging him. The other man did not seem to notice Ed's distinct lack of interest - he smiled again and hurried to the elevator. After the doors closed, Ed went back to his book to see if he could read two pages before the guy was back. He wondered what would happen if he did respond to the flirting. What would hooking up with this guy be like? Would they have sex in less than five minutes? Ed chuckled to himself, and when FedEx jogged off of the elevator with another smile and wave, Ed could barely contain a full-out laugh. Yeah, he was hot. So fucking what. Ed felt no urge to pursue a casual hookup. No urge to hookup at all. Maybe there was something wrong with him. He pulled the sign-in sheet to him and logged the Out time. 

An hour later he was deep into the tale of a group of street kids in Rio, some of them hustling, some thieving, some simply begging. He appreciated the Brazilian writer's restraint in regard to a moral imperative - whether or not these kids were good or bad was irrelevant. They weren't heroes for surviving on their own. They weren't villains for doing what they needed to do. The writing was neutral, and no less evocative for it. Ed heard footfalls on the marble floor approach from the direction of the elevators; he looked up. This time it was a trim, petite woman, middle-aged with short, white-gray hair, and she, too, smiled until she reached the desk. Ed slipped in a bookmark before placing the closed book cover-side down. 

"Mr. Green?" She held out her hand; he shook a firm grip. "I'm Marjorie Wright. I own the senior home care services company on four - I understand from management that you have a background in law enforcement?" 

Ed's initial instinct was to deny it. "Yes, that's right." 

"Would you be interested in a second job, a very part-time position, say three evenings a week? I need a new investigator to do background checks on prospective caregivers. Sometimes your services would be needed interviewing people, but rarely. It's mostly background work. I could use someone with experience." She tipped her head to the side. "Are you interested?" 

Again, Ed was struggling against an instinctual response of No. But-- it sounded like an easy job, for him. Somewhat interesting. He did understand on a gut level the need for reliable and trustworthy home health caregivers, given his parents' experience - his mother still refused to put his father in a residential facility. "I might be interested after we talk about the details," he finally replied. 

She asked him for specifics about his career on the Force. He gave only a bare bone history. She seemed pleased to hear he had years behind him at Detective grade. She did not ask why he quit. They made an appointment for Ed's lunch hour, to talk further and fill out an application. He would decide at that time if the application was necessary. 

"I realize this is a little unorthodox," she said, "but, if possible, I'd like to call your references before we meet later." She smiled. "It's my own background check." 

References.... Ed had not needed any for this job, other than a confirmation of past employment and a clerk at One PP had handled that. Lieu had said, before he left New York, she would give him one. He found a piece of paper and wrote her name and the phone number for the House, and after a moment's hesitation, he wrote down Jack's name and the DA office's phone number. The man had said he would give him a recommendation if ever needed. Ed handed over the paper. 

Marjorie Wright pointed to the names. "What positions do Ms. Van Buren and Mr. McCoy hold? How do they know of your work?" 

"Lieutenant Van Buren heads Homicide South. Mr. McCoy is the Manhattan District Attorney." 

Her eyebrows lifted; she smiled, again. "I look forward to hearing what they have to say, Mr. Green. Thank you." 

He nodded, and she walked away. Unaccountably, he felt a surge of anxiety. It was one thing to be given the offer of a recommendation, it was quite another to use it, to know that a stranger was talking to both Lieu and Jack, about him. It was vaguely disconcerting. He should probably give Jack a quick head's up; besides, it was nearly two weeks since they had last talked on the phone. He pulled out the BlackBerry. It would be good to hear his voice. 

##

Jack hung up the receiver. That had gone better near the end than in the middle, but he thought he had done well enough to help Ed, ultimately. Mrs. Wright had done internet research before calling him, she said, and discovered stories about Ed's arrest and trial. She wanted reassurances. He could only reiterate that he had dropped the charges, and extoll Ed's virtues. Jack wanted to say that she had nothing to worry about, to press her to take the chance, because for the first time in months Ed had sounded interested in something, _anything_ , when he talked about this job. Sure, it was rudimentary work compared to the NYPD, but-- Ed wanted it. Jack wanted him to get it. 

Now all he could do was wait until he heard back from Ed, who promised to call after the interview. The man had charm to spare should he choose to use it, and if he simply smiled one of his incandescent ones Jack was certain Mrs. Wright would read it as sincere. It would be sincere, because this new Ed was without guile. The man's burnout, or whatever it really was, apparently left him without the energy to bullshit. Ed was no longer so careful to watch his words with Jack; he was no longer working to impress him. The friendship building between them was different than their friendly working relationship; it felt more honest, and laced with more truth. At least, that was what Jack saw. What he felt. Everything else he felt for Ed was held close to the vest, exactly like it always had been, only now instead of being low-level and even-toned, the emotions surged and ebbed throughout his days, and weeks. They were friends, Jack kept telling himself, and the friendship was a precious gift not to be fucked with, and so much more than he had ever imagined possible when Ed pointed his car westward. It was a precious gift. Not to be fucked with. 

##

When Ed returned to the lobby desk after his meeting with Mrs. Wright, Thomas, the building manager, updated him on who was where. The bike leaning up against the desk belonged to a messenger at the law firm on six. Ed still thought bikes should be left outside, but Thomas was a biker himself, and built like one - long and lean with a wild crop of blond hair that held streaks of gray. If bikes were brought in come the winter rains, the lobby would be a wet mess. "Thanks, Tom, for the extra relief," he said. "I owe you one." 

"Okay. You can pay me back by not quitting." 

Ed was taken aback. "Why do you think I'm quitting? The work for Wright's is gonna be done in the evening. She said she discussed it with you. Was she BS'ing me?" He did not think so; she seemed absolutely sincere. 

Tom stood from the desk chair and patted Ed on the shoulder. "I knew a guy once who was a cop for a long time, like thirty years, and he quit. He was a detective, like you. A few years later, he started doing private PI stuff. I said, 'What the hell, you retired so you could live a normal life--your words--and now you're back doing virtually the same work. Seriously, what the hell?' And he said, 'Once a detective, Tom, always a detective. My blood'll run blue until I die.' Now, I think that's crap - I think he was just bored with retirement. But, you're still young, Ed, and I see somethin' in the way you're carryin' yourself right now that's different than when you went up that elevator an hour ago." He patted Ed's shoulder again. "Once a detective, always a detective." 

Ed did not know if he agreed about the detective part, but he agreed with Tom about the blue blood part. It always was crap. He shrugged as a small smile bubbled up. "I have no intention of quitting this job. It's too fascinating." 

Tom snorted a chuckle. "Yeah. Just promise you'll keep me informed, huh?" 

"You bet. And, thanks, again." 

Tom nodded and left. Ed pulled out his BlackBerry, and hit the green redial button, calling Jack's cell phone. The man picked it up before it rang twice. Ed smiled. "Hey, Jack. I--" His throat closed, unexpectedly; he swallowed the lump away. "I owe you a debt. Whatever you said convinced her. I'll start as soon as we get my laptop set up." 

" _Ed._ That's _terrific_ news. I'm sure you had something to do with her decision, as well." Ed could hear the smile in Jack's voice. "I just told the truth about your skills as a detective." 

"She's very blunt. She told me she read about my-- trial, but after talking to you, she was confident enough to make me an offer. So, thank you...." 

"You're welcome. What does the work look like?" 

The elevator doors opened and the messenger approached his bike. Ed lifted a hand his way and checked his watch. "It's real straightforward, checking for criminal history, credit reports, DMV, anything I can verify on their educational background, spouses for all that stuff, etcetera. I didn't realize that Wright's has other offices in California, so I'll be kept pretty busy." 

"And you'll work from home, for sure, then?" 

"Yeah. I have a table in my room. I just have to get access to the databases, and a private kind of internet access line set up so there's security in place. This is going to be good, Jack. I did this for my Mom for the last two caregivers she hired. It's not avenging the dead, but that's okay with me." He stopped himself from explaining how he felt about the particular demands of a homicide cop. Maybe he was not ready to open up that deeply with a man who always seemed so sure about his own role in the process. Or maybe he still had that spot of intense need with regard to Jack, and if he spilled the man might not understand at all. Or maybe he was doing too much California navel-gazing. 

They chatted for a while longer, and Ed even got a definitive answer out of Jack regarding the election. Jack continued to waver. That was his answer - he was undecided. He continued to be vague about the particulars, but Ed wormed enough out of him to get that Jack was worried he would not have enough clout behind him. Something had happened between him Governor Shalvoy that seriously strained their relationship. Ed found it easy to give his own opinion - that Jack belonged in the DA's office; he had a good record; he was a fighter. When it came right down to it, what else did Jack need? 

"Money," Jack said. 

"Where do I send a contribution?" Ed said. 

There was a long pause before the other man replied, and Ed could have sworn his voice sounded thicker, and deeper, and held some untold emotions, which was perplexing. Then again, perhaps it made sense - Jack probably did not expect a financial contribution from someone he had prosecuted. Maybe he thought Ed held a grudge. They never talked about the gargantuan elephant sitting in the room. After Ed hung up, he decided he had to find a way to clear the air. He was tired of undercurrents. The damn things could suck a man dry. 

##

The restaurant was one of Jack's favorites, for its exposed brick walls, and muted lighting, and enough noise control that two people could actually hold a conversation without raised voices. He usually used it for first dates, though this was not any kind of romantic date first or otherwise. Jean Piccone was a close, dear friend who joined him for dinner once a month, a habit the two of them began after Jean's husband, Alec, was murdered four years before. It was the way of things that her life was still defined by that brutal death, no matter how much she resisted it, or how vehemently she refused to be a victim. Alec was killed to send her a message: prosecute a mob boss and you'll pay. Jack understood her struggles with guilt - in his worst moments he felt it for Claire's death, and for Alexandra's, and even if years passed and wounds healed, guilt had a horrible staying power. A life of its own. 

"Have you thought about your potential campaign organization?" Jean said. "Who you might find to help?" 

"A little. Shalvoy may want to stick it to me, but, I still have the support of some people who've worked for the party in past elections." He grinned. "Names are being floated my way." Jack sipped his Pinot Grigio; it was dry and crisp and exactly the kind of white he liked. "If I do this, I'll be running against Shalvoy's, meaning the party's, pick. I'll have to run as a nonparty candidate - I have to gather petition signatures to get on the ballot. That's what they're telling me." 

She studied him for a moment. "You don't think you could garner enough signatures, do you? I think you're selling yourself extremely short, Jack." She retrieved a checkbook from the purse at her feet, opened it and uncapped a pen. "So, you're ready to take donations? Just to hold, sort of like a pledge of future support?" 

He nodded, uncomfortable and touched in equal measure. It was easier to think about accepting money from strangers, he was discovering, than from friends. It was easier to accept that his professional reputation was a reason to give, than to accept the notion that his personal friends might hand over their hard-earned money to support him. He had a bad habit of imagining a deeper meaning in a friend's donation - why they would give, and did the amount reflect their feelings for him, and on and on. It was an annoying and completely unproductive trap to fall into. But fall, he did. Opening up the envelope from Ed that afternoon had set him off for nearly five minutes; the man's check was in his shirt breast pocket, burning a tattoo into his skin. 

Jean handed him a check, which he folded without looking at it, and put with the other. "Thank you," he said, with a smile. 

"I'm sorry Shalvoy has turned out to be an ass," she said. "It's disappointing, but I suppose it's the kind of thing we don't necessarily learn about a politician during a campaign. Even if they seem a person of integrity before they run, power seems to almost always corrupt, doesn't it? A fact that is incredibly depressing." She shook her head, sipped some wine. "And on this topic, are you prepared to have your life put under the microscope?" 

"You don't think it already has been? The press has never been kind to me. There isn't much for them to salivate over, anyway." 

"That's not going to stop them. Look what they did with that rumor Shalvoy's people started, about your trip to California, the 'whiff of corruption' nonsense. It was not only utterly false, but the reporter didn't even contact you for comment." Jean pulled a bread stick out of the glass in front of them and pointed it in his direction. "Reporters can be a lazy bunch." She took a bite. 

"I'm certainly not going to argue. But, I have the name of a good press agent, as of two days ago. Someone to work alongside the DA's PR office." 

Jean nodded. "Have you pulled the skeletons out of your closet, yet, for him? Her?" 

"Her. And, that's a little premature, don't you think? Anyway, there aren't any skeletons," he said, wondering what she thought she knew. 

"There's your love life," she said. After a beat, one side of her mouth showed a trace of a grin. 

"Old history. And, irrelevant." 

Jean sighed. "Come on, Jack, you know that's exactly what the press will go for." 

"Of course that's what they'll go for, but that's my reply. Old news; irrelevant." He shrugged. "My record speaks for itself." 

Jean took a sip of wine. "How _is_ your love life?" 

Jack was given a short reprieve as the waiter arrived with their salads, and served them each freshly ground pepper, and topped off their glasses before leaving. Jack gave himself another short reprieve by having a bite of Caesar salad. The anchovy was more prominent than usual; he liked it. Jean was eating hers, but continued to give him a look of expectation. He sighed to himself. "I have no love life at present." 

"Really? Is that by design, or lack of opportunity?" 

"Really," he said. "I have no idea why." It was not necessarily for lack of trying on his part. The last woman he had dated was someone he met at the dry cleaner's, last spring. It had not lasted long. In hindsight he had probably gone out with her--and slept with her--for all the wrong reasons, like distraction from stress, and relief from loneliness, and to prove that he was still desirable. Relief from pent-up sexual frustration. But, not because of any quality she, herself, possessed. The experience had not been his finest hour. 

Still, why the continued drought? He asked himself the same thing on a weekly basis, and more particularly since Ed's phone call from Winnemucca, since their friendship had been developing, since Jack started looking forward to Ed's emails. It wasn't as if anything could ever happen between him and Ed, and, besides, he had dated--successfully--on more than one occasion since this Ed thing had started five years before. There was no reason he could not date, now.... Although, there was a new wrinkle affecting his already muddled feelings about the other man. "Maybe I just haven't found the right person," he finally continued. "If you know someone, feel free to give me her name and number." 

Jean only smiled, but, it was clear there was something on her mind, something she was keeping to herself. Perhaps she already had a name to give him; perhaps she hesitated because his disinclination was showing. It was time to change the subject, before this one got any stickier. 

"Speaking of the press," he said, "they should be satisfied with what we're giving them next week. A cold case was solved because some kids found a gun in a lake in Oneida." 

"Oneida? That's a long way to go to dispose of a weapon." 

As Jack had hoped, Jean's curiosity pulled her in. He nodded. "It's because the murderer lives a mile from the lake. There were two bullets in the gun; we matched fingerprints on the shell casings to our original suspect - a well-respected Oneida professor, who killed the drug dealer who'd hooked his daughter. At the time, the daughter had just died from an overdose. The case has everything the press loves: drugs, the mob, even a corrupt FBI agent." 

Jean's eyebrows shot up. "I would've heard if there was an FBI agent involved in a murder. How long ago was this?" 

"Seven years. We talked to your boss at the U.S. Attorney's office, but he declined to pursue it, and the agent resigned, so the FBI was satisfied. I can't say that I was, or am, still. The agent gave up the identity of a witness--a cab driver--to the professor's mob-connected brother, who killed the witness to save his brother. It was _heinous_. The cab driver was an immigrant from West Africa, sending money to his family, there, to get them out of the war zone. Heinous." 

"And, so, that mobbed-up brother - where is he?" 

Jack described how the brother, Callie Lonegan, was knifed in Rikers before he had been there two days, killed by the same mob he had informed on to his buddy in the FBI. He told her how frustrated he felt, not being the man in the courtroom, trying Professor Lonegan. Of course it had nothing to do with any lack of faith on his part in the abilities of Mike and Connie. But, he wanted to bring closure to the case himself. That would be fitting. Too, he wanted to be the one taking Ed through his testimony, because the man was returning to New York. When Jack told him, initially, Ed had said he wanted "some time" to think about it. Fifteen minutes later he had called back, and said, "Tell me when and I'll be there." It was a faster response than Jack had expected; obviously, Ed still took this case to heart. 

Jack both looked forward to Ed's return, and dreaded it. He hoped they could at least go out to the delayed dinner. He wanted the chance to thank Ed, in person, for the letter he had sent with the donation. It was brief and to the point - Ed said he did not hold anything against Jack, not for his prosecution, not for the trial, not for any of it. Jack knew he had no personal responsibility - he was doing his job and Ed _had_ killed a man. What struck Jack, what affected him so deeply about the letter, was the fact that Ed wanted to clear the air, that it was important enough to him to take the initiative. That their friendship was important enough. Jack tried not to read too much more into it, but, in quiet moments that afternoon, he had imagined scenarios in which, somehow, the two of them found a way to move beyond friendship. A candlelit dinner. A walk in the park on a balmy summer evening. A bar where nobody recognized him, and nobody cared who he shared a drink with. Who he talked to in a back booth. Who he kissed. Whose hand he might hold. Imagined scenarios, absurd scenarios, each and every one. 

##

Summer in San Francisco was turning out to be exactly as everyone had described it to Ed when he first arrived: foggy, bone-chilling cold. Especially at night. So why he and Sean and Sean's friends were sitting at a table on a bar's back patio on a Friday night, with the fog so heavy it dripped off of trees overhead, and his fingers so numb that he almost could not pick up his glass of Scotch... the why was a mystery. The bar itself was crowded, too crowded to talk much, but there were other bars in other parts of the city they could try. Sean's crowd liked the patio, and they appeared unfazed by the weather. They were a helluva lot drunker than Ed. He was pacing himself, trying to keep his head clear for a while longer, at least. It was not easy; his frozen ass was testament. If he found someone to hook up with, his consumption might change, or might not. He was not even sure he wanted to hook up. 

His legs urged him to move; his bladder agreed; he left for the head. One step inside the back door and the stifling heat hit; he unbuttoned his black leather jacket in frustration. This was as bad as winter in New York, moving from subzero outside to overheated inside and back again, all day, on the job. This was fucking California, for fuck's sake. He shoved hard on the bathroom door without thinking. 

"Hey!" A guy leaving stumbled back a step. "Watch what you're doin,' dude!" 

Ed sighed harshly and held up his free hand. "Sorry. You okay?" 

"Yeah, no damage done," the man said, as angry angles in his face relaxed. He was middle-aged, white, with short salt and pepper hair and mustache. His dress was pure leather scene. He smiled. "You want to make amends for nearly knocking me on my ass, you can have a drink with me." The smile disappeared. "I'll wait outside." 

Ed nodded, still holding open the door as the man left, brushing by too closely since Ed did not move out of the way. It was a deliberate choice on his part. The man had a nice smile, and a good build, and suddenly Ed did not want to pass up a chance for a hook up. Suddenly his frustration, and ennui, and even the tiny pit of loneliness was too much. He needed relief. 

A few hours later, Ed had some relief, albeit only sexual. Vincent was a skilled partner, if a little slow on the uptake - he kept trying to kiss, though Ed had nixed that from the first. That was a minor problem, ultimately, and the only one. Ed was grateful that the leather getup was only a getup. No games, no bullshit. Just straight-on sex. After they finished, Ed offered Vincent something to eat, or drink, before he left - Ed was hungry, and mellow, and did not mind the other man's company. He pulled on a pair of jeans, left Vincent in the bedroom getting dressed, washed up, and made them a couple of quick sandwiches. 

When he returned, he caught Vincent looking at his desk, and bulletin board. Ed's client files were in a locked cabinet, but there were some notes on a legal pad that were confidential. He had not expected to bring someone home. The laptop was up like usual; there was nothing to see but screen saver bubbles bouncing across the desktop wallpaper. Vincent turned around, hearing Ed. He handed him the plate and a bottle of water, then turned the legal pad upside-down before setting his snack on the desk. 

"Guess I was prying," Vincent said in a light tone, as he pulled up the second chair from against the wall. "No offense." 

"Don't worry about it," Ed said with a shrug. "My fault for leaving confidential stuff out. I hadn't planned for company." He started in on his sandwich. Food tasted exceptionally good after sex, and it had been a little too long since he last had the pleasure. 

"How does a person learn how to be a private investigator? It's not a major in college or something, is it? How did you do it?" Vincent began to eat, too. 

Ed debated a lie; he had come up with one or two plausible explanations precisely for times like this, but, he told the truth instead. It did not seem right to lie to a man he had just had sex with. However, opening up the topic of his former life as a homicide detective changed the dynamic between them, as Ed had suspected it would. People became either tense or awestruck for some reason, and with gay men, it was usually the latter. 

"It's not at all thrilling, as a job," Ed said in response to Vincent's "cool" comment. 

"You must have found some satisfaction from it," Vincent said, relaxing into the chair. "You did it for a long time. You worked hard, I assume, to get to be a detective, right? It's not something they hand to a cop after X number of years...?" 

"Well, you do become a detective by appointment, but I worked hard to earn the chance. I put in my time; I moved up in grades and got into homicide. Satisfaction?" Ed took a long swig of water to give himself a moment. It was his million dollar question of the past year, and sometimes he had the answer and sometimes not. He finally gave a brief nod. "It was satisfying to hand the prosecutors evidence to put someone away. It was satisfying to dig around and find the evidence. To solve the crime." He refrained from going into the negatives. Instead, he told Vincent about Sebastian Waziri, the immigrant cab driver who was murdered solely because he had had the misfortune of driving Donald Lonegan away from a murder he had committed. The case had been open for seven years, but now Donald was going to trial, finally. Ed found himself telling this relative stranger about the impending return to New York, and, in general terms, how he was both dreading it and looking forward to it - the opportunity to facilitate justice would be so worth it; if only, in the process, he could control who he would see from his old life and who he would not. 

"Oh, Ed...." Vincent heaved himself upright and gathered the plates. "You will be in control as much as humanly possible." He smiled. "Whatever happened to make you change your life, man, you did it, and you're here, and you've started over. It's what most of us have done, why we live in the Bay Area." He smiled again before leaving for the kitchen. Ed followed him, taking over the cleanup as they talked about Vincent's contractor's business. 

While they were saying their good-byes at the door, Sean came home, and the three of them chatted briefly before Sean left them alone again. Ed heard the refrigerator door open and close as he thanked Vincent, meaning every word he spoke - the evening was good; Vincent was excellent in bed; his company was enjoyable. However, Ed had no plans to see him again. He was not interested in dating, and no matter how carefully he set parameters, a second hook up would lead to expectations. It always did. 

After he closed the door, he tracked down Sean. The guy was most definitely drunk, and immediately claimed he had picked up some "bad vibe" from Vincent. 

"Shut up, Sean," Ed said, without rancor - he was used to Sean's vivid imagination regarding any man Ed had sex with. Sometimes women, too. It was more annoying than anything. Ed searched out the oatmeal cookies in an upper cabinet, and took two. 

"I'm not gonna shut up, Eddie. I've seen him around and he's always lookin' to fuck guys younger than him, and, really, he shoulda left you alone cause he's jus' doin' what the fuck he's doin' cause he's got one foot in the grave, dude.... Yeah, he should look in the mirror, for fuck's sake...." 

Ed left the room. 

While standing under a hot shower, he pictured himself walking up the steps of the New York County courthouse, alone, to face Donald Lonegan. Ed was the only one left from the original case - Lennie was dead; Abbie was gone; DA Lewin was gone; Callie Lonegan was dead; Jack was no longer the prosecutor. It was the last which was most unsettling. He should look into Jack's face when testifying in this case, not Cutter's. Cutter was a cold man. He would not understand about Waziri. Even though it was Callie Lonegan who had killed Waziri, the death was on Callie's brother Donald when it came right down to it. And, Sebastian Waziri was the reason Ed was going back. 

~*~##~*~ 

It seemed a bit over the top, Jack thought, that he actually had butterflies. Ed was due in the office within the next half hour, for an afternoon meeting with Mike. Ed had said he would "stop in" and "say hi" and they would finalize plans for a dinner together. No big deal. Jack's stomach, and skittery pulse, and inability to concentrate on anything longer than ten minutes duration belied that idea. It seemed a bit crazy, Jack thought, to believe he could pick out Ed's footsteps on the corridor's linoleum among all of the other footfalls, and chatter, and ringing telephones out there. The man's long, purposeful strides, that slowed as they approached. Jack's heartbeat lurched when he heard Ed's voice, greeting Ida, and he forgot about concentrating on work, and his stomach, and pulse points, and was up and around the desk by the time Ed came through the door. The man looked good; he looked different, but that's all Jack registered before they were clasping hands in a soul shake, before Ed unexpectedly pulled him into a man-hug. Jack was too surprised to do much but grab his shoulder in return, and breathe in Ed's scent, and let go, step back, and smile with genuine feeling to see Ed, here, standing in front of him. 

"How was the flight?" Jack said. Ed's eyes were bigger than he remembered. 

"Good," Ed said. "Long." He broke their eye contact with a glance over Jack's shoulder. "Wish I could have afforded first class, 'cause coach isn't meant for anyone over five-nine." He smiled a soft smile and met Jack's eyes again. 

"Maybe bulkhead seats on the way home, then." Ed was wearing a yellow v-neck tee shirt under a sport jacket, a display of more skin than Jack could remember ever seeing. A display of more color than Jack could remember. His fingertips ached to touch. 

"Yeah," Ed said. He looked at his watch. "Cutter's waiting...." 

Jack nodded, and remained standing in the middle of his office as Ed lifted a hand and walked out. A flush of heat suffused his face. He had forgotten the particular ways that Ed Green moved, ways that enticed, that filled him with want. He had forgotten the small things: the shift of Ed's hips; the looks that transformed Ed's face moment to moment; the feel of Ed's palm against his own. In the months since the man had left, details faded from memory. They returned in a rush. 

##

Ed's heart was hammering inside of his chest; he headed directly to the conference room, bypassing Mike Cutter's door. He needed to stop for a moment, and sit, away from the whirl of activity all around him. He poured a cup of coffee and sank down onto a chair at the conference table. His heartbeat was still thudding; butterflies were still frantically beating inside; his brain was ticking through events, and words, and reactions over the past nine years. How had _this_ happened? When had it--? Why was--? _What the fuck?_ It had hit him with a wallop when he first set eyes on Jack coming toward him with a happy look on his face, a look that was more than a simple man-it's-nice-to-see-you-again face. A genuinely pleased look, with bright eyes, and flushed cheeks. Gray-white hair that fell over his brow as he approached. And it had hit Ed, directly in the solar plexus, deep inside, that he in turn was much more than pleased to see Jack, to feel the warmth of his hand, to clutch his biceps, to catch Jack's unique scent, to be near him. _Damn_. 

He could not remember any experience like this before in his life, but, of course, there must have been a time when he felt such intense, immediate attraction. Attraction that came out of nowhere to knock him back a step. If he had ever felt this before, he could not remember it now. He took a sip of coffee; it sucked like it always had. His pulse was slowing, changing to a low, vibrating current running through him. The thrum of desire. Of bone-deep want. That thing that sits in the pit of one's gut, and chest. Yes, he had it. For _Jack_. 

The door opened; he started. He looked up. Connie Rubirosa was smiling broadly. He tried to smile in return, but it did not feel authentic; he briefly wondered how it appeared to her. 

"Ed," she said, "it's wonderful to see you again. You look _great_ \- California must agree with you." She beckoned with a wave of a hand. "Mike is off the phone, now. Let's get started." She smiled again. 

Ed stood, taking the cup of awful coffee along. At least it would give him something to do with his hands. He chatted with Connie while they walked the few yards to Cutter's door. He felt his glance irresistibly drawn further down the corridor, to the acting District Attorney's open door. Jack's door. The throbbing in his chest started anew. 

##

Jack was doing what he usually did in the afternoons--review case reports--and given his acute awareness of one man's presence across the hall, he was satisfied he could focus at all. Special Victims was prepping for a particularly difficult trial, and he was looking for extra funds they needed in other departments' budgets. Everyone was stretched so thinly this year it would take creative problem solving to make it work. Maybe it was time to-- 

A loud rap on his open door interrupted. He looked up. Butterflies resurged. Ed stood there; his face was pinched, and he looked as if he was holding himself back from charging forward. Jack waved him in. In less than a second Ed was perched on the chair in front of him. 

"Look, Jack, I get that I'm a liability in this trial, I accept it, for god's sakes, but what I don't get is why you asked me to come back in the first place if I wasn't going to testify!" His chest was heaving. 

"What? Why do you think that?" Jack reached for his phone to call Mike in, but the man himself was suddenly in the doorway. Jack waved him forward, too. Mike wore his usual blank mask, though there was a spot of high color on both cheeks. "Mike. Enlighten me?" 

Mike stood next to Jack's desk with hands on hips. "As I told Detective Green--" 

" _Ed_ ," Ed said. 

"Excuse me-- Ed. As I told him, I am reconsidering the decision to put him on the stand. His recent legal troubles are a definite liability, as we have discussed. You and I, and then just now--" His attention wavered as Connie walked in. "--in my office." Connie sat in the other visitor chair, next to Ed. "But, if that were the only issue in regard to his credibility, we could address it, and neutralize it. As we discussed. It's not the only issue. It turns out that De-- Ed acted outside of his job description, at the time, and gave some assistance to Mr. Waziri's family in Sierra Leone. Obviously, this could be seen by the defense as an indication that the original investigation was tainted by the personal involvement of the lead detective." 

Jack was stunned. He looked at Ed; Ed was looking daggers at Mike. "Ed? Is this true?" 

Ed's glance shifted to his, and the force of his anger seemed to dissipate. "Is it true that I tried to do something for Mr. Waziri's family? Yes. I wasn't gonna sit back and pretend they would be just fine. I talked to a woman in the State Department who knew my father, and she talked to her contacts on the Ivory Coast, and, you know, strings got pulled here and there, until eventually we got them down to Johannesburg where they had cousins. I paid for their trip and gave them some money from Victim's Assistance. I get a letter about once a year - they're surviving." He folded arms across his chest, and shrugged one shoulder. "I don't see the problem." 

"The _problem_ ," Mike said, "is that Waziri's murder by the defendant's brother is our _mens rea_. I can't just ignore him." He began ticking items off with his fingers. "I've got the witness who saw the brother kill Waziri. I've got Waziri's statement--that I still have to get into evidence--about the defendant getting into his cab right after the murder. I've got ex-FBI's testimony before the Grand Jury. I've got the brother's confession. If I have to pull Waziri, all I have is a gun that was found in a lake near the defendant's home, with some partial prints and an iffy ballistics' report!" He pointed at Ed. "You should have told our office, back _then_ , that you were sending cash to Africa!" 

Ed slammed palms onto the chair arms and pushed himself to stand, turning to Mike in the process. "I don't see why anyone has to know what the hell I did to get them the money that was _due_ them by the state of New York! So what I paid for their _damned_ train fare?" 

"Ed," Jack said, as calmly as he could manage, "sit down. Please." Ed looked at him for a long moment, then sat. Jack shifted his glance to Mike. "This is _not_ Brady material. It has _nothing_ to do with the case. Keep it in the office." 

Mike shook his head. "The defense attorney has already made noise about a plea. I'm inclined to make the deal, keep this away from a jury." 

"You don't think you can win at trial?" Jack said, sensing Ed's attention focused on him, not Mike. He glanced at the man. Their eyes met. Ed looked away. 

Mike began to pace along the side of Jack's desk. "If-- Of course I can _win_. I just don't want any more surprises." 

"Good," Jack said. "I look forward to your opening statement on Monday morning." Mike appeared about to say something, but merely nodded once, motioned for Ed to come with him, and the two of them walked out. Connie was still sitting with legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. "Connie-- Something to add?" 

She sighed and stood up. "I'm only going to do this once, and only in this instance, because you know I don't want to talk behind Mike's back. But. This was _your_ case. That makes it a bit more intense for him." 

Jack nodded. Connie left. Mike might be feeling slightly intimidated taking this old case to trial - Jack could honestly understand that. All the same, the man's ego was intact enough that Jack could use that to his advantage, to goad him into a trial. Jack wanted a trial for three reasons: he wanted the vicarious pleasure of seeing the good professor at the defense table; he wanted the vicarious experience of Mike's prosecution; and he did not want Ed's trip to have been made in vain. 

So, Mike flying off the handle was understandable. What was going on with Ed was more of a mystery. Jack could not remember a time when Ed had been as volatile, as reactive. Not in a good many years, anyway. He _had_ just flown across the country on a red eye. Maybe he was simply exhausted. 

##

Ed left Cutter's office after another hour of trial prep. A long hour that began with more than enough tension for Ed, given that he had been awake for almost two days, by now. He had planned to sleep on the plane; the cramped seats made it a fitful sleep, at best. He wanted to take a cab to his parents' brownstone, crawl up to his old room on the second floor, and fall into bed until some time tomorrow afternoon. His mother, however, had already made plans for the two of them to drive to her favorite Saturday farmer's market in the morning, so he could help her stock her freezer with fresh chickens from some guy upstate she swore was blessed by the hand of God - he had such a nurturing relationship with his poultry, that of course they were the most delicious in all of the northeast. 

Ed walked slowly toward Jack's office. It did not feel right to simply leave without saying anything to the other man, besides, they were originally supposed to make plans to go out to dinner. The long put-off dinner. The dinner Ed wanted, and did not want at the same time. How was he going to sit across the table from him and have a normal conversation, when all he would be contemplating was what Jack's skin felt like to the touch. Or if their bodies would fit together as well as it seemed. Or if Jack had ever been with a man, or if Ed would be the first. 

He entered Jack's office, and Jack glanced up from his desk, and smiled looking over his reading glasses, and Ed wondered why he had never before noticed how bright the man's eyes were during a full smile. How his face completely transformed. 

"Prep is finished, I assume?" Jack said, pulling off his glasses. 

Ed sat in one of the guest chairs. "Yeah. I'm due up first, as usual, Monday morning. Looking forward to it." 

Jack nodded. "We'll get a conviction." 

He sounded confident, and Ed believed him, and he finally felt as if they really did have a good chance to convict this sonuvabitch, when up until now he had rarely felt as good about Cutter in court as he always had about Jack. In that moment, he knew he could not go out for a friendly dinner with this man. Every move Jack was making - his hands, his mouth, the lift of one shoulder; the way he looked right through a person as if he could see everything.... Ed could not handle it. At least not tonight, or even tomorrow night. Maybe after some sleep, he would feel differently. Maybe not. 

##

Midmorning on Monday, Jack pushed open the courtroom door as quietly as possible and slipped inside, to sit on the bench against the wall. Ed was already on the stand. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to walk a short two blocks and see the man in person. Their long-planned dinner had not materialized over the weekend - Ed had family obligations and other demands on his time, which was to be expected given that he was only in town for a few days. Jack was acutely disappointed, and spent the weekend staying as busy as possible so as not to dwell on that disappointment for more than five minutes at a time. It had more or less worked. 

Mike finished the direct; from Jack's perspective it was cut and dried and well-presented. The defense attorney started in on Ed, taking the expected road of questioning Ed's credibility because of his arrest, but Ed handled it with the same calm demeanor he routinely displayed on the stand. The defense attorney then attempted to make Ed's current job sound sleazy, characterizing it as an ex-cop who missed the license to abuse suspects. Since he was so accustomed to abusing people, now he was spying on folks who were simply going about their daily lives. It was a fairly bizarre and stupid line to take, Jack thought. Obvious to him, the defense was flailing; he hoped the jury saw the same thing. In response, Ed's eyes blazed for a brief moment, and when he replied, his voice dropped lower, and he talked more slowly. He explained that he took the job because his father had Alzheimer's, so he knew the consequences of a personal caregiver who might not be on the up and up. Jack glanced at the jury. Ed had them. He breathed a sigh of relief. The cross was over. 

Ed came off the stand and headed to the doors; he saw Jack, and smiled. Jack walked out with him. In the corridor, Jack said, "That went well, given the potential pitfalls." 

Ed stopped walking. "Seemed to. It wasn't as bad as I was expecting.... I mean, to talk about what I did. Not fun. But, man, that attempt to impeach me was damned strange. What is he doin' - already preparing an appeal based on lack of adequate counsel? What the hell. Made no sense." 

"He's an Oneida-based attorney. Maybe up there they think all city cops are corrupt. I wouldn't worry too much - he didn't make a dent in your credibility with the jury. They liked you." Ed seemed embarrassed. Jack was surprised - the man had to know how well he came across while testifying. Didn't he? "I'll let you know the verdict," Jack said. "I expect it by the end of the week." 

Ed nodded, pulling out a packet of gum from his jacket pocket. "Thanks for going ahead with the prosecution," he said while unwrapping a piece. "It could've been ignored after all this time." He slipped the gum in his mouth, and chewed. 

Not for the first time, Jack looked at Ed's mouth and wondered. Texture... taste... feel... He dragged his attention upward, clearing a suddenly-dry throat. "I've kept the file in my office; it was always an open case as far as I was concerned. You'll let Mr. Waziri's family know the outcome? You still have a way to contact them?" 

"As of eight months ago, anyway." 

"It would have been prudent to let our office know that you had given the Waziris financial assistance--" 

"As far as I could see, the case was _dead_. I didn't think anyone cared." 

Jack shrugged one shoulder. "You know that wasn't our attitude." 

Ed heaved a deep, long sigh. "Yeah. I do." He watched people walking by for a moment, before meeting Jack's eyes. "I concede it would have been _prudent_. My apologies." 

Jack smiled. "Accepted. And, I'm glad you found them, and got them to safety. Was good you had those contacts. Speaking of, how are your parents?" 

"Okay, overall. My mother was glad I came home; I helped her with some stuff around the house that needed attention. My father used to think I was a boy from the neighborhood he played with - now he no longer remembers him, even, so I was a complete stranger. Sometimes that upset him. That's how it is. Nothin' much I can do about it." 

"I'm sorry, Ed." He wanted to touch him in reassurance. 

Ed shrugged. "Yeah, it sucks. But, in better news, I got a job offer last Friday while I was in the air. A private detective school in San Francisco offered me a teaching job." He grinned. "Digital Investigative Techniques. The owner of the school is a friend of Mrs. Wright's. I'm seriously considering it. Would let me quit the high-rise desk - it's pretty boring." He shrugged again. "Seems like teaching might be fun." 

"Things are happening fast for you, aren't they?" Jack found himself struggling to say something more supportive; he found himself wishing Ed would not be given new, and interesting opportunities in San Francisco. Couldn't he discover some here? 

"Maybe that means I'm in the right place," Ed said. "Don't know," he added in a low voice. 

"Well, the job sounds-- rewarding. Interesting," Jack said, smiling to show he was sincere. 

Ed smiled in return. "So - are you closer to making the big decision, yet?" 

"No." Ed was waiting for more; Jack swallowed about ten things he could say. He would say them to an intimate; he would say them to a lover; he would say them to the one person in the world with whom he felt closest. Which Ed was not. "There are still too many pros and cons, and the cons still seem insurmountable. I have another couple of months before the deadline." 

"I, for one, hope you do it. And just don't lose my check, Jack. I meant what I said - I want mine to be the first one deposited in your election fund." He smiled, again, and glanced at his watch. "I'd better get out of here. My flight leaves at seven...." 

Renewed disappointment kicked Jack's chest. "You're leaving tonight. I didn't realize." 

"Since this was short and sweet, I don't have any excuse to miss work tomorrow. I'll probably be back around the holidays. We could get together, then? If you want?" Ed began massaging the palm of his left hand with his right thumb. 

"That would be nice," Jack said. "We'll make sure it happens this time." Ed nodded, and held out his hand for a soul shake, and Jack obliged, and this time he was the one to pull them into a man-hug, because he needed it, and he wanted it, and he hoped the momentary closeness would both satisfy and tide him over until some months from now when he might have another opportunity to be in Ed's presence. It was difficult to let go. It was difficult to say good-bye. 

##

Ed watched Queens disappear below as the plane soared into heavy, low clouds, lurched twice from turbulence, and settled into its ascent. His mother had driven him to La Guardia, deciding at the last minute that she was not willing to give up another hour with him, so their good-bye was done at the departure curbside drop-off, under the glaring eye of a security guard, amidst cars pulling in and pulling out. She cried. He tried not to. He had stood inside the sliding doors, watching, as she dried her eyes, and fastened her seat belt, and drove away. The lump in his throat had felt as big as a grapefruit. 

Ed continued to look out the window on the off chance that the cloud cover would break and he might see landmarks below. He was rewarded when the plane finally completed its wide turn westward - he actually saw the southern tip of Manhattan, briefly. He could not pick out the courthouse, or the DA's office, or any other building or bench or sidewalk he knew intimately. He felt the tug, anyway. Jack was probably down there, right now. He was probably finishing up an ordered-in dinner, maybe with Cutter, or Rubirosa; maybe they were rehashing that days' work in court. Jack was-- 

He turned away from the window, let his head rest against the back of the seat, and closed his eyes. Regret was creeping into his mind like the insidious, pointless, waste of energy it was. He hated it. He had no control over it. But, regret he did, and deeply. He should have braved it all and gone out with Jack over the weekend. A simple dinner. How hard could it have been? Now, it would be months before he saw him again - _if_ he went back at Christmas. His mother, and brother, talked about throwing financial caution to the winds to come out to San Francisco for the holidays, to get away from the snow, to give his mother a treat with a real vacation. Great idea, bring the whole family. Bring Jack, too. 

The pilot came over the speakers to give the ETA for the west coast, and the weather report, and Ed could almost feel the fog on his face. It would be good to be-- yeah, home. For the first time since he had moved, San Francisco felt like that. He was leaving home, and going home at the same time. A man could get disoriented, and maybe that was his bottom-line problem with regard to these newly discovered reactions to Jack. Maybe it was a simple case of disorientation brought on by a severe life change. Maybe it would fade once he was watching the waves roll in from the Pacific. He was not sure he wanted it all to go away. There was something about it that seemed vaguely right. 

~*~##~*~ 

"I had to get your second choice," Ed said to Thomas as he handed over the man's sandwich. "They always run out of chicken salad by twelve-thirty." He spread a napkin on the desk and set out his own tuna on sourdough, kettle-style chips and a pint of fruit salad. One thing he really had to applaud this city for was their breads. He was seriously hooked on sourdough, any style, any kind. And fresh fruit, which was in abundance, and local, and delicious. He was no longer running after perps on a regular basis, and suspected he would need to start jogging soon, though he was loathe to do so. He had always hated jogging. Gym memberships here were steep. He missed the NYPD workout rooms - they were crappy, but free. 

By now, he and the building manager had a routine of at least one lunch per week together, at the desk itself. Since Ed had given his two week notice--within a few days of his return--Thomas altered their routine to just about every other day. Ed did not mind. He liked the guy. Thomas knew how to argue without anger. Ed enjoyed their intellectual tugs of war. 

Thomas pulled the day's paper to, from the far corner of the desk. He pointed at a story on the front page under the fold. "Did you see this shit? McCain's new ad tries to compare Obama to Britney Spears. Like there's some correlation between a man running for president and energizing the population, and a pop singer whose career is like a slow-motion train wreck. I hate that man." 

Ed nodded; his mouth was full. 

"I honestly don't understand," Thomas continued, "how anyone would choose, of their own free will, a Repug, when they're the ones that got us into this financial mess in the first place. You know, my neighbor is about to be foreclosed upon. The banks don't give a crap--" 

Ed's BlackBerry rang its email alarm. He tensed; he was on verdict watch. He checked - it was from Jack, which only made Ed's gut clench even tighter. He opened it. "Yes!" he hissed, half under his breath. Donald Lonegan: Guilty. The relief was intense; it was more than he had expected to feel. After sitting with it for a moment, his throat closed, unexpectedly, as he remembered the naiveté of Sebastian Waziri, his belief that he would be okay if he kept his head down and worked his double shifts. He was in America, now. Ed shook his head, half to himself. 

"Something good, I take it? Or bad?" 

Ed washed down the lump in his throat with some iced tea. "Good," he said. He cleared his throat. "The case I went back for, verdict came in. The dude went down. Justice was a long time coming." He glanced through the rest of Jack's email, which was about the possible sentence, and asked Ed to let him know if he made contact with the Waziri family. If not, Jack would see what strings he could pull with the weight of his office behind the effort. Ed smiled, and put aside the BlackBerry. "Let me ask you something," he said, turning his attention to Thomas, who was enthusiastically digging into his turkey on sour rye. Thomas nodded. "Have you ever had some really strong attraction for someone, out of the blue, someone you've known for a long time?" 

Thomas stabbed a piece of cantaloupe from Ed's fruit container, and ate it slowly. "You mean, like a love at first sight thing? Bam! And you're hooked?" 

"No, no," Ed said quickly, "Not love.... No, not like that. Just a _thing_ that hits you. This person suddenly looks really hot, and you want them, badly, and up until that point you've just been friends, or colleagues...." 

"Yeah, sort of. I had an on again off again friendship with a woman I first met in college, and then, one day, I swear to god, we were walking out of a restaurant toward her car, down Geary, and she laughed at a stupid joke I made, and jesus, I just _wanted_ her. I'd never, ever thought of her that way before. I was ready to convince her to come to my place right there on the spot. Weird." 

"What happened?" 

"It got really fucked up, 'cause I was looking for signs, you know, that this might be reciprocal, and I started interpreting things, and after a while I was convinced that it _was_ , and it turned out it wasn't. Not really. Not like I felt, anyway." 

"And--?" 

"I got lucky. She didn't end up hating me. I found someone else. We're still friends." 

"Do you still feel that way about her?" 

Thomas paused, took a drink, and finally said, "Every once in a while. It's more like I remember how I was looking at her, back then, and I get this flash. Then it's gone." 

It was similar, except he and Jack had only been personal friends for-- 

"Someone changed," Thomas said. "When you were back there, didn't they? You don't have to spill, you haven't been here long enough to've let go of your east coast reticence, yet." He shrugged, and grinned. "I'm a curious guy." 

"Yeah, someone changed, or I did. Don't know what happened. Don't know what to do about it, if anything. Plus, there's the distance issues." He sighed, without meaning to. It made him sound like a lovesick puppy. He sighed, again. "Maybe it doesn't matter. I don't know when I'll even see him again. I half-expected it to disappear after being here a couple of days. It didn't. It hasn't." He ate some melon; he did not want to keep talking about it. 

Thomas offered the opinion that Ed's feelings probably would not fade as long as he was still in contact with the mystery man, and, obviously, Ed was getting emails from him, and if Ed really did want to move past where he was he should make a more concerted effort to date, here, and if he was into men he could not be in a better melting pot of gay and bi men than this city, and even offered to hook Ed up with some guys he knew, until Ed stopped the flow by telling Thomas that he was not particularly interested in dating. Anyone. That much, he still knew. 

As to the rest, the more he thought about it over the next few hours, the more he came to the conclusion that he was clearly in the evaluation and interpretation stage. He was looking at every interaction he and Jack had, recently, to see what he could glean from them. The man had the postcard Ed had sent from Nevada on his bulletin board. Jack wanted yet another rain check for dinner, and had agreed to the suggestion without hesitation. Now, Jack was offering help with regard to the Waziris. There was a small part of Ed that dearly wanted to invest meaning behind each instance. A small, but unfortunately vocal part. He knew it was futile to look for meaning that did not exist. He could not stop himself. Besides, what if he was wrong, and it wasn't futile, and Jack actually felt something deeper than friendship? What then? 

~*~##~*~ 

It was Labor Day; the DA's office was officially closed, and Jack encouraged everyone to actually take the day off. Arthur Branch had implied the opposite - though he never explicitly told people to come into work, or work from home, he instead implied that ADA's were continually behind the eight ball so why waste a day on such an unnecessary, and socialist, holiday. Jack always thought Branch was attempting tongue-in-cheek humor, but he was against giving mixed messages, on principle, and particularly to overworked and underpaid ADA's. 

This end of summer holiday found Jack strolling the sidewalks near Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village for the semiannual outdoor art exhibit. He had not attended in nearly seven years. He used to come routinely when he was younger, and more willing to wander block after block in sometimes wilting heat. It was a fun, if huge, festival. Now, he had a little extra income to enjoy - maybe he could find a piece of artwork to fall in love with. Maybe a print, like an etching, or maybe a photograph. The artist's and media guide pointed him southward, past the large park itself, to NYU's Schwartz Plaza. There were three printmakers and one photographer exhibiting on the shady, tree-lined pavement sandwiched between two university buildings. There were also benches lining the plaza; Jack took a break on one, stretching his tired legs, drinking bottled water from his old backpack he had dug out from the rear of the closet. 

At times like this, he thought New York City was one of the finest places to live and work, and he knew he was a lucky man. At times like this, the city was lovely, and vibrant, and peaceful, and bustling in the very best sense of the word. At times like this... he missed having someone special to share it with. He could have called a friend to join him, but thinking about it that morning, honestly, he came to the conclusion that he did not want a friend's opinion on what art he should buy, or could buy. If he did not have a lover--whose opinion he would actually care to hear--he would rather find something by himself. And, that was okay. He was lonely, but okay. 

He could see one of the printmaker's stalls from where he sat, and it looked like the artist was working with a lot of color rather than finely detailed etching. He was intrigued; he left the bench, swinging the backpack onto a shoulder as he walked. The woman had made a few prints he could easily imagine looking at every day - they were more abstract than he usually favored but they had an energy he liked, and rich colors that appealed, and, hell, he might have found something already. One in particular in greens, and golds, was no larger than a standard sheet of paper, for two hundred dollars. 

"Jack McCoy," a familiar voice startled, on his right. "I didn't realize you were into abstract art." Jean Piccone smiled widely. "How did we miss _this_ topic after all these years?" 

"Jean," he said, and kissed her on the cheek. "How nice to see you. To be fair, I can't say I'm _into_ abstract art. I like this woman's work. I'm thinking of buying it," he said, pointing to the print he had been studying. "It's about time I splurged a little." 

"I applaud the whole notion of splurging. As for the work, I don't know that I'd want it in my apartment, but so what. Art is in the eye of the beholder, and if it speaks to you, that's all that matters." 

Jack felt a laugh bubble up, a laugh at himself, for behaving like an ornery old curmudgeon. He lifted the matted print off its hook. "It speaks to me. Come on, keep me company while I give the artist some money." 

"I'd be happy to." 

Jean slipped her hand to the inside of his arm as they walked to where the artist sat; he did not mind, as the pressure of her hand felt slightly comforting, and comfortable, and rather nice. They occasionally walked like this after dinner, when he led her to her car, or the subway, or until she was able to hail a cab. While the artist carefully wrapped the print in plastic, Jean said, "Have you made arrangements, yet, to attend the ABA annual conference next month?" 

"I never received the flyer. Coincidentally, calling them tomorrow is on my to-do list. But, I'm not that keen to go to Atlanta--" 

"Oh, no, Atlanta fell through; there was a fire at the venue a couple of months ago. Shame for them, really - the FBI suspected it was arson but they haven't found proof to back up their theory. We lucked out. The conference is in San Francisco." 

Jack's heart stopped. Then pounded hard, reverberating in his chest. 

~*~##~*~ 

Ed erased the white board of that day's notes, gathered together the few papers on his desk, slipped them into his briefcase, did a quick check under the two student tables (the week before he had found an ID), turned off the light, and left. It was three o'clock. He had a little more than two hours to go home, take a shower, change his clothes, and return downtown to meet Jack at his hotel. The mere thought that he was going to see Jack that day, that the man was in the city, that there were relatively few miles between them--and today there were only a few blocks--was hard to absorb, really. He had spoken to a travel-weary Jack on the phone the night before, made firm plans, settled logistics, and ended the conversation with "see you tomorrow," and Ed's pulse began skittering and had not actually calmed since. 

He was almost to the elevators when Sydney Johnson stopped him with a shout from down the corridor. He forced his reaction to remain neutral. He liked the woman just fine; he simply refused to be late to the Hyatt Regency and she had a tendency to chat. 

"Ed," she said, as she reached his side, "glad I caught you. Walk out with me?" 

"Sure," he said, and hit the Down button. "But, I have an appointment...." 

"No worries. I'll be quick. Listen--" The elevator arrived; they got on; Ed hit One. "It's about you taking over Carl's Criminal Defense Investigations class when he goes on vacation. You're the perfect person. Why won't you do it?" 

Ed sighed, and hiked the briefcase's strap further up his shoulder. "Sydney, your question might be quick, but my answer isn't. I'm not the _perfect person_. Trust me." The elevator arrived at the main lobby. He should have taken the three flights of stairs instead - he would be on the sidewalk by now. 

"But, Ed--" 

He tapped his skull as he walked toward the front doors. "Not right, wrong mindset, not interested, gotta run." He picked up his pace and pushed through the doors with force. He heard her calling his name as he started to jog toward the Muni subway station. 

##

Jack was drying his hair after a hot shower when there was a knock on the door. He double-checked the bathroom clock automatically - it was four-fifteen. No way would this be Ed, an hour early. There was a second knock. He turned down the radio, finger-combed his hair, pulled on the hotel's complimentary robe, and looked out the peephole. Jean was studying the fingernails of her left hand. Jack did not have time to visit, and almost chose to ignore her, when guilt won out. He opened the door just enough to talk. 

"Jack, oh, gosh, I'm sorry - did I get you out of the shower?" 

"No, don't worry. I was already out. What's up?" He suddenly felt uncomfortable, standing there in nothing but a robe. Longtime friends, or not. 

"Would you like to join me for dinner? Well, join me and four others? We're going to the Tadich Grill for cioppino, up the street. Lewis says it's a must-do, been here since the Gold Rush, etcetera, but Lewis tends to lean toward tourist spots, so take that 'must-do' description with a grain of salt. Angela said she ate there years back and it was very good, and didn't feel like a tourist spot, at all, or something from the 1800s. Come with us - it'll be fun." 

Jean was talking faster than she usually did. Her cheeks were pink. Jack assumed she felt uncomfortable with his undressed condition, too. "Thank you, but I've got plans already." 

"Oh. Hence, the shower. A date?" 

"Dinner with a friend, who lives here, now." He did not want to explain anything about his evening dinner plans - not gender, not description of the friendship, not any aspect at all. He felt deeply protective of his privacy, suddenly, and not because Ed was a man. He did not want to qualify, out loud, his relationship with Ed. He wanted to feel free of expectations tonight. To simply relax into the evening. 

Jean's voice dropped lower. "Well, I hope you have a lovely visit, Jack. I'll probably see you at breakfast. My first meeting is at nine." 

"I'll look for you," he said, with sincerity. They said their good-byes, and as soon as he closed the door, Jack rushed through the rest of his preparations. He shaved, dried his hair, dressed in jeans and a new, brown sweater he had bought before the trip, grabbed his coat, wallet and keycard and was about to leave when he remembered his watch. He might not need it, but he was naked without it. 

The corridor outside his room opened to the seventeen-story-high atrium. At lobby level there were restaurants and a bar, and a simple lounge area, all surrounded by balconied, open corridors. Jack was on the fourth floor. He paused to look down on the lobby. To see if Ed was already there. As far as he could discern, Ed was not - at least, nobody was instantly recognizable to him as Ed. He continued onward, getting into one of the glass elevators, taking advantage of the perspective to keep the entrance in view. Just as he came to a stop, he thought he saw Ed. His heart began to pound so intensely he briefly wondered if a heart attack was imminent. 

##

Ed stepped out of the cab on Drumm Street, pocketed his credit card, and straightened his jacket. He had arrived home with only forty-five minutes to spare--Muni had experienced typical "delays" on the way--and decided to fork it over for a cab for the return trip rather than be late. The cabbie had made miraculous time. Ed was showered, shaved, dressed in clean clothes, and five minutes early. He crossed the guest drive-through drop-off behind a limousine, just pulling to the curb. Ten feet from the first door, he saw a man in an expensive suit with two bellhops in service - one with a large cart full of suitcases and the other rolling something the size of a trunk. The three of them slowly jostled their way through the glass doors. Ed swore under his breath and strode past them to the second door, which, thankfully, was clear of people, carts, and suitcases. He pushed through and stepped onto the escalator which would take him up one level to the lobby atrium. During the ride, he took in a lungful of oxygen, and exhaled slowly. Within five minutes, he would be with Jack. Within five minutes, he might have it all figured out. His skittering pulse became a pounding heartbeat. 

##

Jack watched Ed rise, head first, up the escalator. Their eyes met, and Ed smiled broadly, lifting a hand in greeting. Jack started moving across the circles of tiles without any hesitation whatsoever, when he had _deliberately_ planned to stay cool, and park himself halfway between the elevators and the escalator, and wait. Ed stepped off the escalator; in two of his long strides they were face to face; Ed opened his arms and Jack went with it, and they hugged, and _damn_ it felt good, chest to chest, Ed's arms around him, his around Ed. Jack momentarily closed his eyes to the hubbub surrounding them, and breathed. The man smelled too good. He felt Ed letting go, so he did, and they were face to face again, and Ed was smiling the secret smile of his, that transformed to a full smile, complete with shining eyes and the familiar half-dimple. 

"It's good to see you," Jack said. 

"It's good to see you, too, Jack," Ed said. "You ready? I made reservations for five-forty-five." 

"Ready. And, hungry." 

"Me, too." Ed turned and the two of them stepped onto the down escalator, and began to talk. 

##

The light rail train ride on the Embarcadero, along the waterfront, would not be a long one. They had picked up the train on the other side of the plaza outside of the hotel, at the end of Market Street. Ed liked this part of the city - the turn of the last century Ferry Building had a bustling marketplace inside of it, now, and beyond that was a view of the silver Bay Bridge under total reconstruction - the original art deco towers still stood next to new, huge anchors rising up from the bay waters. Beyond that, an island, and then the blue-green east bay hills on the other side. The restaurant they were heading for was in Pier 35, one of the old pier buildings that lined the waterfront. It was a new place, with floor to ceiling windows facing the bay, and an industrial-loft feel that was also intimate, with dining areas partitioned off, and low lighting. Good food. 

Ed and Jack were sitting side by side on the light rail train; Ed had accomplished that by deliberate intention, following Jack onto the train. Ed could have sat in front of him, or catty-corner, or across the small aisle; the train was not crowded. He sat next to him, and waited to see what might happen. Within seconds, Jack's thigh--which had been only an inch maybe two away from his own--shifted enough so they were barely touching. Ed waited a beat, then shifted himself to force a bit more contact. There was a buzz in the pit of his stomach, a buzz running up and down his leg, through his shoulder, also a mere inch from Jack's. He was becoming more and more certain that these things were not a figment of his overactive imagination, or deep-seated desire, or loneliness, or madness. Most strictly hetero, friendly men--at least in Ed's experience--would not create more contact when they had the choice to create less. Although, his perspective might be skewed because most of the strictly hetero, friendly men that Ed knew were on the job. 

The hug... honestly, it might have been a slip into madness. He had not planned that, at all, he simply wanted to hug Jack when the moment came, so he signaled for it, and would not have been surprised in that moment if Jack had opted for a strict man-hug. Instead, Ed had held Jack against his chest for longer than a second, or two, and maybe it had been no more than five but it felt like at least a minute, or two, or five, or longer. It had felt so wholly, utterly right, that if they had not been standing in the middle of the Hyatt Regency lobby he might have done something wholly, and utterly, rash. 

##

"I could _do_ it," Ed said, with a slight nod. He paused, looking out over the water, briefly. "Meaning that it wouldn't take long to figure out the differences between prosecutorial investigations and defense investigations." 

"Your hesitation, then?" Jack said. He knew Ed had rarely, if ever, expressed admiration for any defense attorney, but few cops did, or accepted the adversarial system as a shining example of jurisprudence. He was surprised that Ed would feel strongly enough to refuse teaching a course in defense investigations. It was money, wasn't it? 

The server brought their fried calamari appetizer, and lit the table candle with a stem lighter. The sun was setting. Jack's stomach growled when he smelled the food; he forked a calamari ring, dipped it in sauce, and ate. It was hot, and tender, and delicious. The last time he had been in San Francisco he had tried this supposed delicacy - it was like rubber. 

"It's complicated," Ed said with finality. He tried the calamari, and made a noise of approval. 

Jack sat back in his chair; the rebuke had stung. "Okay," he said, immediately regretting the word. What was okay about it? He took a sip of Scotch. 

Ed leaned forward, on elbows, an earnest look on his face. "I didn't...." He muttered something under his breath, and slowly rubbed below his bottom lip with an index finger, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Jack. I don't mind the question, not really, it's just that it's a complicated ball of crap--," he tapped his temple, "--in here." He shrugged. "Not sure it's enjoyable dinner conversation, in such a nice restaurant, a night like tonight--" Ed's glance dropped to the bowl of food. He took another calamari ring and ate it quickly. 

Jack felt his cheeks flush. A night like-- what? Something significant? Special? Ed thought that? He shifted forward again, and rested on forearms. He did his best to give Ed a nice smile, a normal smile. "If you've got a complicated ball of crap in there--," he pointed to Ed's head, "I would be interested in talking about it." He dropped the smile. "No matter that we're here, or the ambiance, or that I'm only in the city for a few days, or anything. I'm _really_ hungry. I'm thinking a five course meal, or maybe six, sounds good. My credit card's got a hefty limit. Something about the initials after my name, now." He waited. 

Ed's eyes were locked with his. Jack held the contact, even though it felt like Ed was looking straight down inside of him, like the man could discern everything behind each and every word he spoke. Like he was testing their import, their veracity. A small smile blossomed on Ed's face. "Okay," he said. "We'll talk about the crap in my head. We'll eat." He pushed the appetizer an inch closer to Jack. "We'll not let this get cold." 

"Agreed," Jack said. He felt a rather sweet sense of relief, almost of accomplishment. It seemed Ed still trusted him. That in itself was worth the trip. He dug into the calamari with enthusiasm. No wonder people out here considered it a delicacy. 

##

Ed took another sip of his Bushmill's - it was surprisingly good with fried calamari. "So," he said, and cleared his throat. Irish whiskey had a tendency to drop his voice even lower. He took an ice cube from the second glass and added it to the Irish, swirling it for a moment. "The main reason I don't want to, or don't feel like I _can_ pick up the Criminal Defense class for a month? Aside from the fact that I think criminal defense attorneys are usually scum just like their clients? Which I do. I know you think differently, Jack, and I respect that. But, the bullshit they pull in court.... Anyway, I can't see myself standing in front of ten people who have paid good money and teaching them ways to dig up dirt on prosecution witnesses, even if they were just eyewitnesses, who did nothin' to deserve having their dirty laundry aired in open court. That's part of it." 

"Don't you think that every defendant deserves a chance to find out if people witnessing against him, or her, are lying? Or, if the cops made a mistake during the investigation?" 

"Of course, but _every_ defense attorney comes at it from the perspective that every cop is dirty, and every investigation is flawed, and every witness deserves to have his, or her, credibility questioned. And, yeah, there are dirty cops, and screwed up investigations, and lying witnesses...." He was starting to slip into the complicated muck. He stopped to take a sip of watered whiskey. 

"You feel like you'll be enabling the defense attorneys." 

He nodded. "Yeah. Training folks to help them. And getting paid to do it, too." 

"But, you wouldn't be responsible for how those people use their skills. They'd have to decide who they'll work for. What kind of support they're comfortable giving. Dig dirt on innocent bystanders, or look more deeply at a case and maybe find something to exonerate their client." Jack shrugged. 

Ed shifted his glance to the tabletop. Sure, folks would take the training and make their own way with it, and that was not his business. Maybe his problem was that he simply did not want to get involved in the whole "adversarial system" pile of shit at all. 

Jack said, "What about your own defense attorney - did you think he was scum?" 

"No, he was good people. But, at the time I didn't want him to put up much of a defense, as you know. What do you think might have happened if he'd been let loose to do his thing? He probably would have done his best to rip Lupes apart. Lupes, of all people - I mean, he can be way too intense for his own good, but he _believes_ , man. He's on the side of the angels." 

Jack shook his head. "There's nothing clear-cut about our system, Ed. You know - it's messy. We all do the best we can, to act with integrity, to follow the code of conduct, the police try to police themselves to stay honest - it's messy. We're all just human." 

"But, at least working homicide, it didn't feel so messy. I felt like I was on the right side. When I was a cop, I honestly felt like I was one of the good guys. Before everything went to hell." 

"Is that why you quit? You didn't feel like one of the good guys anymore?" 

Ed took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. He trusted Jack; he could do this. "See, this is where it gets complicated.... I quit because I was tired of parsing my life so-- so _carefully_. Tired of being morally _righteous_ on the job, and morally-- _iffy_ , off it. I'm a gambler. Gamblers aren't white hats. I'm other things, too. It started to feel like more-- It was exhausting." 

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "I have a hard time believing that you would be morally iffy, as you call it. Simply because you had a gambling habit? You kicked it. You didn't use your position to steal from the evidence locker to support it. You didn't do anything illegal or unethical in order to keep gambling--" 

"I killed a man." Ed's throat closed. He had not meant to say that. 

Jack shook his head, and bit his lip, and finished off his Scotch in one gulp. He leaned forward. "You killed a man who was going to destroy your friend. Who already _was_ destroying your friend." 

"I got her involved in gambling in the first place, Jack. It was _my fault--_ " 

" _No_. Her choice. Hell, her choices all along the way, Ed--" 

"No, no, no. She was just tryin' to survive as best she could." 

Jack reached out and held Ed's forearm. "And _she_ made _choices_. She embezzled, rather than getting help for her addiction, and you have no responsibility for that. She could have done ten other things to cope, and instead she decided to steal money from her employer." 

Ed was not so sure, still. After all these months, whenever he talked to her, whenever he thought about her, about what happened--when he actually allowed himself to dwell on it--he still felt responsible. 

Jack let go of his arm, and continued, "You're right about one thing - once she was in deep trouble, and that man had his hooks in her, she had very few options for getting out, for surviving. He would have likely killed her eventually. But, what does that have to do with _you_ as morally iffy? You came through for her. You tried to fix everything." 

Ed shook his head. "I lied to my colleagues." He paused, but he had to say it. "I lied to _you_." 

Two spots of color appeared high on Jack's cheeks. He shrugged slowly, letting out a small sigh. "And then you fell on your sword. Supposedly, there is nothing more heroic than that." 

"Why are you _defending_ me?" He wanted to know - of all the ways this conversation could have gone, had ever gone in his own mind when he could not sleep, this was the least probable. The never-imagined. On the other hand, he might hear something less than personal in response. He wanted to glance over his shoulder to see if the server was on her way with dinner, and could interrupt them. Like, right now. 

Jack took a drink of water. "Why am I defending you? Same reasons I defended you back then. I see a man in front of me who is basically a moral, ethical man--" He held up a hand to forestall the argument Ed was about to interject. "--who, in the end, does what he believes is the right thing to do. Maybe he's wrong sometimes. As are we all, sometimes. I don't see a man who approaches, or approached, his life from the perspective that he was owed, or the other guy be damned-- he's a man who would not _hesitate_ to lay down _his life_ for someone he cared about." He pointed at Ed. "You almost succeeded. How does that define a man as morally bankrupt, or even morally _iffy_?" 

Ed shrugged, because he had no other response to give. He did not know what to make of Jack's perspective. Or, of Jack himself. Only one thing was crystal clear - he had lost the ability to judge Jack's body language with even the slightest bit of rational perspective. He wanted to believe that the intensity of Jack's eye contact was a hint of some deep, underlying emotions, maybe even passion. If Ed had been sitting with any other man, or woman, experiencing this same nonverbal communication, he would automatically read it as sexual, even romantic, interest. What he had felt during the hug, and on the train, was not fading. Exactly the opposite. 

The server arrived with dinner. Ed was glad, now, that she had not interrupted five minutes ago. 

##

Jack could not stop watching Ed, every bit of Ed from the way he ate a piece of calamari to the way he sipped his Irish or licked his lips. Jack was drinking in as much of Ed as he could possibly manage, for it had been two months since he had seen him and it would only be this one evening that they would be together. Even if Ed was interested in spending more time together--and that was a big if--Jack's schedule for the next two days of the conference was full, and his evenings were almost entirely mapped out. But, for now, he was sitting across the table from this man he-- Well, he had feelings for. The only problem was that the ambiance was almost too romantic. The sun had set; the restaurant's lighting was low; mood music was from a soft jazz trio somewhere in the place - Jack had not seen a stage. The windows next to their table held a view of the inky bay, a starlit sky, and cities on the bay's opposite shore backed by a ridge of hills that looked like they were covered in a thousand candles. There was a huge, orange, October harvest moon rising up behind said hills. It would be a good evening for a bike ride. If he had one, and could have Ed sitting behind him, wrapping long arms around Jack's waist. He sighed to himself, and focused on his steak, and spinach, and pommes frites, cutting his meat while keeping one eye on Ed. He could not stop himself. He did not want to. 

"So," Jack said, "I take it law school is not part of your plans?" 

Ed laughed, appearing to nearly choke on a bite of fish. He swallowed, a grin firmly in place. "Yeah. Not likely." 

Jack smiled, mostly to himself, and mostly because it had felt damned good to make Ed laugh. Hell, to make the guy smile was pretty rewarding in and of itself. "Okay, then. No ABA conventions in your future." 

Ed shrugged, still grinning. "Not unless I'm someone's date." 

Jack grabbed his water glass, to cover, because there was no way he could respond to that - no words came to the fore, nothing appropriate he could think of. He chewed a piece of ice, relishing the cold like a slap on the cheek. He set down the glass, and pointed at Ed's head. "How's it going in there, now? Still a ball of crap?" 

"No, not entirely." Ed broke their eye contact, swirling what little whiskey was left in his glass, seemingly mesmerized by the motion. "You made some good points," he said, looking up again. "Maybe my moral compass isn't so screwed up after all; maybe it is. But, you've given me stuff to think about." His voice dropped; his glance intensified. "Thank you." He shook his head slightly. "Your point of view surprised me. It wasn't what I expected." He hesitated. 

"Which point of view?" Jack said. 

"About me. What I did. I can't remember a case when you didn't believe that the-- killer deserved the full force of the law, and as much prison time as possible." Ed shrugged. "You'd go as far as you could go, and then some--" 

"Out of control McCoy, _right?_ " He didn't care if he sounded defensive; Ed, of all people-- 

"No," Ed said, still in a low voice. "That's not what I meant. You're a man who's passionate about the law. About using it to avenge the dead and prosecute murderers. But, when it came to my case, suddenly your office was bending over backwards to cut me slack. Why me? Other people have presented mitigating circumstances. They still do time. And you've never been a guy who shows cops special treatment. I just wonder why, sometimes." 

Jack did not know what to say that had not already been said. _Because I couldn't sit by and let you disintegrate? Because I cared about you?_ He sighed to himself. Why was he hedging, still? There was nothing to lose because there was nothing, really, on the line. Right? He shrugged. "You weren't just any cop, Ed. You mattered. If you weren't going to help yourself, it was up to the rest of us to do it." 

"So," Ed said slowly, "it did come from you. The fake plea negotiation. That was your idea." His gaze was still intense. 

Jack's pulse began to pound, deep in his gut. "Yes. It was." 

Ed nodded, and, after what felt like a long moment, shifted his glance to the whiskey glass he held. He drained its remaining drops. 

Jack took the opportunity to change the subject away from any further talk about his personal motivations for saving Ed's life. "I have some news - I'll be cashing your check soon. I've put my hat in the ring as of last week." 

Ed's face lit up with a smile. "Good. Things with Shalvoy calmed down? Or....?" 

"No, things with the governor are still bad, and will always be bad. He has his own candidate that he's directed the party to endorse - Joe Chapell. They have. He and Chapell are all over the media. I'm gathering signatures to get on the ballot as a nonparty candidate. I'm about halfway there." Damn. He had meant to bring a petition along, so Ed could sign, and left it in his hotel room in the last minute rush to leave. 

"Is that a bad thing?" Ed's brows knitted. 

"What?" 

"The signature count?" 

"Oh - no, I was going to bring one for you to sign, but, it's still in my room. I tossed it in my suitcase because there are a fair number of New York attorneys here - thought I'd take advantage, start gathering support." 

"Can't I sign when we get back to the hotel? I'd really like to." 

"Sure," Jack said, injecting deliberate casualness into his delivery of that one word. He would have to come up with a reason to make Ed wait in the lobby. Unless that, alone, would be odd enough to raise questions in the other man's mind. He would think of something. He had to, because simply having Ed, there, in his room, with a door closed to the world - there was no way he could keep from showing his nerves. He was not that good an actor, as he had learned over the course of his long life, from more than one lover and family member. And, Ed.... Looking so fine.... His eyes burning right through him.... Jack wanted him. As much as he ever had. 

##

When they left the restaurant, the place had filled to the point that conversation was difficult, with sound bouncing off of the steel beams overhead, the cavernous ceiling above that. Ed had originally planned to lead Jack to the light rail for a ride back to the Hyatt. He had considered other options during dessert and coffee, places they could go so that the evening would not end: a cable car ride up and over Powell; a drink at the Top of the Mark with its 360 view of the entire bay area; a walk around Union Square for no reason whatsoever. Everything he had picked was either hokey as hell, or better in the daylight. But the light rail ride would only last for eight minutes, so within ten or twelve they would be entering the Hyatt, and then what? He would sign the petition, somewhere, and leave. Should he make a move? Should he ask for more time together, over the next few days? Could he say good night, knowing he might not see Jack again until--maybe--Christmas? 

On the train, halfway down the Embarcadero, Ed said, "I need to stretch my legs. Are you up for a little walk?" 

"Sure," Jack said with a brief nod. 

"Come on." Ed stood as the train pulled to a stop at a platform. 

They walked off, and Ed led them down a cross street, away from the water. At least this would give him an extra fifteen or twenty minutes in Jack's company before they actually entered the hotel. Extra time to feel his jittery pulse, and the tiny spot in the pit of his stomach that was so excited to be almost queasy, and the electrical current charging through his brain. He wanted Jack. He wanted to do things to him; he wanted to see and feel the man in the throes of ecstasy. He wanted to kiss Jack deeply, until he succumbed. 

##

During the walk back to the hotel--in between conversation about different tourist spots in the city, and which ones Jack had seen, and what other things Ed had discovered that were not in any way tourist-like--Jack made a decision. He would suggest that Ed wait in the hotel lobby bar, so they could have a nightcap. Jack would go to his room and get a Nominating Petition. Easy, and straightforward. Eventually, he would be forced to say good night, but, maybe by then, and another drink, parting would also be easy, and straightforward. Regret could wait until tomorrow morning. Tonight, he had Ed's undivided attention. 

##

The bar was crowded - Ed could tell from halfway across the lobby that there would be little chance for grabbing a table, or even two bar stools. For that matter, the entire lobby seemed full of people, and as he and Jack approached the bar a few people raised their hands at Jack and shouted a greeting. Lawyers. The convention was in full, drinking swing tonight, in every sense of the phrase. 

Apparently, Jack was feeling optimistic, because he continued onward, leading them directly to the bar area, where four people pushed out of the crowd and descended on Jack with unabated enthusiasm. One of the four, a woman, looked familiar to Ed, but he could not quite put a name to the face. Something to do with a murder from years back. She focused on him. 

"I know you," she said. Her wide smile faltered; her color faded alarmingly. "Detective Green. You worked my husband's case." She held out her hand; he shook it. "Jean Piccone, of the U.S. Attorney's Office." 

"I remember," he said, as the case came back in a rush. He assumed her suddenly subdued demeanor was due to memories of her own, so he attempted to lighten the mood by asking her how she was enjoying her visit to San Francisco. As if he had the civic pride of a long term resident. 

"I've loved coming out here ever since my first time, twenty years ago," she said. "I wish I could stay longer than a few days--" 

"This place is nothin'!" A balding, middle-aged man leaned on Ms. Piccone's shoulder; he reeked of alcohol; his face was red; his shirt strained its buttons over the expanse of his belly. " _Nothin'_ I say! Second rate, down the list of places _I'd_ ever wanna live...." 

Ms. Piccone pushed him to stand upright, grimacing while she did. "Get off me, Robert." Another of the male companions helped her, holding Robert by the arms, telling him to shut up, to go back to the bar and have another drink. Ed did not think that was the best solution, but, whatever. He did not want to keep standing here attempting to chat with strangers, much less drunken strangers. 

##

Jack could see this situation was untenable, which meant that his plan was untenable, which meant that either he pulled Ed aside, forwent the petition signature entirely, and said goodnight right here in the lobby, or he quickly came up with an alternative solution. Another place they could go, but, where. And, when it came down to it, he wanted Ed's signature on his petition. It was crucially important to him, and he did not care to analyze it further than that. He was standing just behind Ed's right shoulder, by now, and clasped the shoulder with his left hand, pivoting around until he was able to lean in and speak in a relatively low voice. 

"Let's go," he said. 

Ed turned his head enough to meet Jack's glance. Their eyes locked for a moment, which stretched to a long moment, a seemingly charged moment, leaving Jack's insides a jumpy mess. He thought he felt something brush his stomach; he broke the eye lock to glance down, but Ed's hand was not touching him, though he could not be sure that it was actually stationary and had not just pulled away. 

"Where to?" Ed said, and Jack dragged his attention up, away from Ed's hand. 

"Know of any place around here?" Jack said. 

Ed lifted the shoulder still under Jack's grasp. "Maybe. My roommate would. I can call him...." 

Jack reluctantly let go. He nodded. "I'll run up to my room first." He stepped back and made a move to leave the bar area. Ed grabbed his arm. 

"I'm coming with." He paused. "Too noisy here for a phone call." 

Jack nodded; his stomach fluttered frantically. Ed let go. They walked out of the bar; Jack looked over his shoulder. Jean was watching them. She smiled and waved. He waved back. In the glass elevator, they were alone; the atmosphere was thick with tension. Jack did not break the silence. He did not know what to say. Five feet and three inches away, on the other side of the enclosed space, Ed studied the floor, or his shoes, or saw neither - Jack had no way to judge. He told himself that the sudden tension was due to the pack of drunken lawyers they had escaped from, or maybe it was fatigue, or his imagination yanking him around tonight, or maybe Ed was trying to think of a way to extricate himself and go home, or-- 

The elevator arrived on his floor. Jack told himself to relax, to hang on, to focus on the task ahead. He told himself that whatever--whoever--he might want, by all means he should not do anything rash, or potentially humiliating. Stay cool. Like Ed. 

##

Ed followed Jack into his hotel room, taking a quick glance around before focusing his attention back on Jack. It did not appear that Jack was the kind of man who spread his personal stuff on every available surface within minutes of arriving, and for some unknown reason that pleased Ed. Why he should care, he could not say. His mind was unable to settle on any one thing, not even a lighthearted comment to make, or a question to ask. Jack seemed as nervous as he felt. There was no debate in his mind about that, at least. Jack was a man whose emotions were usually written all over his face, and body language. The guy was running through most of his usual nervous tics. A shoulder twitch. A darting glance that bounced off of the wall behind Ed's head. A brief bite on his bottom lip. That was the one tic that was driving Ed insane, and not in a bad way like he wanted to punch Jack or anything. Insane like it forced him to notice Jack's mouth. And lips. 

Jack retrieved a legal-sized petition from the briefcase on the table. He was keeping the case locked. Ed applauded him for that choice. One never knew who was working for hotels, even the Hyatt Regency, and it was doubtful that Jack's title would keep a perp from digging through a briefcase on the off chance she might find a stray credit card. 

Jack spread the paper on the table, and smiled. "Would you please sign my petition?" he said in formal tones. 

Ed smiled, too, and gave a nod. He sat. "Pen?" he said. 

Jack muttered something unintelligible, and opened the case again, pulling out a pen from one of the center divider's loops. Ed reached for it, and his fingertips inadvertently grazed Jack's; his skin tingled. He glanced up. Jack's cheeks were pink. He tried to focus instead on the petition in front of him, empty squares waiting for his attention. How many times had they shook hands? Skin to skin? Palm to palm? This reaction was so cliché. But-- so _real_. Jack's response-- the same. Ed signed his name, wrote the address of his condo in New York, and took a few seconds to check out the other signatories, people who also held Jack in high esteem. He felt a pang of jealousy over each and every one of them, ridiculously so, he knew, but he could not stop himself. He clicked the pen closed and slowly set it down. He stood. 

Jack had not moved; they were less than two feet apart. Ed could not turn away; he could not simply shift his body toward the center of the room in preparation to make his phone call, ultimately, to leave. He was a little lightheaded as he felt that familiar, strong urge to _take a risk_ , a big risk, maybe, but not an unmitigated one. _Take a risk_. He reached for Jack's face with his right hand, cupping Jack's cheek, its pink hue intensifying. Jack was stock still. Ed ran a thumb across the cheek; the skin was soft with age. Jack's eyes were locked with his. 

"Am I wrong, Jack?" Ed said in a low voice. "Tell me I am, and we'll go for a drink like two friends, then say good night. Tell me--" 

Jack put a finger on Ed's mouth to stop him, and shook his head. "You're not wrong," he said, his voice thick, and gravely. He slid his hand from Ed's mouth to the back of his head and tugged gently as he brought his face in closer, tilting to one side, and when Ed did the same, in what felt like an eternity and over miles of airspace, their mouths met; they kissed, slowly, with aching, excruciating tenderness. Jack's lips were soft, agile; Ed could taste a hint of cinnamon; he breathed in the musky scent of Jack's after shave - it caused a charge to surge through him, so he kissed harder, and faster, and Jack went with it, emitting a noise from down low in his throat, and that hit Ed with a rush - this was _Jack_ going at him like he couldn't get enough, and Ed pressed, and pried, trying to deepen the kisses, and at the touch of their tongues Jack stopped moving for a millisecond... and succumbed, pulling them tightly together, their mouths thoroughly enmeshed, Ed clutching him close, and the feel of this man fully in his arms, the taste of him, the smell of him, made Ed's head swim. His body was burning up with want. For Jack. _All_ of him. _Now_. 

##

Jack was about ten seconds from falling asleep - he knew he was, and it was a delicious feeling, this post-coital buzz of melting into the mattress. But, he forced himself to come to, to grab the opportunity to open his eyes and look at Ed, already crashed, half on top of him, hot, and... Beautiful. Jack gently extricated himself out from under and rolled on his side, facing Ed. How the _hell_ had this happened? He was too far gone to analyze it too deeply, or wonder too intensely what it meant, or might mean, or-- Anything. He watched Ed's back rise and fall in rhythmic, deep breathing, and ran fingers from his shoulder down to his ass. Because he could. He spread a hand over Ed's shoulder blade, and felt the man's heart beating. Slow, and steady. Ed's chest scar from the shooting had looked bigger than Jack had expected, and more jarring than not, a reaction that almost threw him. He had been deeply engrossed in the sexual give and take, overwhelmed by sensation, and heat, and Ed's intense, singular attention, but to see that scar made his throat close with pain. For a few seconds he had nearly lost the moment. Then Ed had nibbled and kissed his way across Jack's chest and pain turned into something entirely different. And here was Ed, in his bed, and everything Jack had experienced in the past hour and a half was so far beyond-- He shifted an inch closer, and stretched an arm across Ed's back, and closed his eyes, and let himself drift under. 

##

Jack awoke with the strange sensation of heat and weight on his chest. A touch on the side of his ribcage. He could see through his closed eyelids that the room was barely light, so morning, but too early. Consciousness returned, and warmth flooded his senses as he remembered the night before and knew who was on his chest, and who was touching him so delicately. He opened one eye, found Ed's shoulder, and rested a hand on it, rubbing it with a half-awake thumb. 

"What time is it," he said with a minimum of effort. 

"Six-thirty," Ed said in a low rumble. "I have to leave by eight, have a class at ten." Jack could easily get used to hearing Ed's silky voice in the quiet of a bedroom. Ed sighed. "I'll use the shower before I go?" 

"Please," Jack said. Ed chuckled, shaking against Jack's chest, causing a laugh to bubble up from inside. 

"That bad, huh?" Ed said, and Jack could hear the smile in his voice. 

"You and me both." He smiled. This was most definitely nice, and easy, and entirely relaxed. More relaxed than the usual morning after a first night together. "Hungry? How about we order breakfast from room service?" 

Ed raised his head and Jack saw his eyes for the first time, and he could swear to whoever would listen that there was something behind Ed's irises that sparkled like brown topaz, which was too poetic for his own comfort, and slightly embarrassing, but that's how they looked. Ed's eyes sparkled, even in the low light of the rising sun sifting through sheer curtains. Ed said, "Room service sounds like a splurge." 

"It is. That's what makes it perfect." 

Ed nodded. "Okay, then. I would love some breakfast. I'm starving." He smiled, a full out smile, a dazzling smile for so early in the morning. 

Jack rolled over and pulled the room service menu from the bedside table, and the phone, and they looked over the offerings, and while Ed dragged himself to the bathroom, Jack phoned in the order. The hotel kitchen promised food would arrive promptly. He hoped so, because suddenly he wanted to have a relaxed breakfast with Ed before they said their good byes. It was imperative. Suddenly, Jack's schedule for the remainder of his stay felt crowded, and frustratingly pointless, and boring, and intrusive. And, suddenly, he wondered if he was in way over his head. He wanted to be with Ed and nobody else for the next two days. And, that was a wholly impossible scenario. 

##

Jack had pulled on jeans and a tee shirt, and was finishing up a shave by the time Ed was finishing his shower. Through the mirror he watched Ed step out and towel off, gazed at acres of skin that Jack knew the feel of, the taste of. He knew where Ed responded to which kind of touch, or kiss, or bite. There were areas still left to explore, responses still unlearned. There was little, or no time left to relax into the process. Jack normally relished this stage, this everything-is-new stage, when one's life is suddenly, and thoroughly, different in a thrilling way. This was not a stage of anything - this was one night, one morning after. One unexpected experience. 

Ed saw him watching, and smiled a slow smile laced with heat, and Jack smiled, too, his spine tingling, his heart pumping a little harder to see Ed look at him in that way. Jack wanted so much right then--more than he could have--and in that moment he consciously chose to look no further ahead than the next hour. The next minute. Jack dried his face; Ed fastened a towel around his waist, and when his long fingers finished tucking it in, Jack was in front of him. The second their eyes met, he hugged Ed, pulling himself close in a slow, deliberate move. With Ed's arms wrapped around him, chest to chest, he closed his eyes, inhaled Ed's unique scent, archiving it to memory, and came within a hair's breadth of saying something, but stopped himself instead. Now was not the time for trite words, that is, if he could even put words to how he felt, or what he wanted, or what he wanted to hear this man say. He could not. He pulled back far enough to take Ed's mouth in a languid kiss, deep, and sweet. Body memories washed through him; his knees felt too weak to stand. Jack clutched Ed's neck, the skin hot, and damp; Ed moaned softly against his lips, and somehow deepened the kiss impossibly further, until Jack was losing himself in everything he now knew they were together. Everything that was intense, overwhelming; everything that was-- _true_. Ed's hands traveled down until he was holding Jack's ass, and their pelvises began a combined rhythmic, slow thrust, and Jack wanted to go with it, god knew he did, but a corner of his brain was focused on the door to the hotel room... And, sure enough, there came a loud knock. Breakfast had arrived. 

##

Ed paid little attention to the food he was eating, other than to register some vague taste and the sensation of his stomach filling up with something. Taste was fine; it was good, even, for hotel food. His waffle was warm; his eggs were warm; the fruit bowl was sweet with apples and pears and kiwi. Coffee was good and strong. The buzz was almost unnecessary, but he knew that in a couple of hours he would need the residual caffeine to make it through his lesson plan. His focus was Jack. Jack enjoying his omelet; Jack enjoying his English muffin; Jack licking a dribble of honey off of a finger; Jack catching his stare, and smiling almost to himself, and even blushing enough to be noticeable. That it was _Jack_ \--and the same Jack who had once existed almost exclusively in the realm of work--was both disorienting, and somehow effortlessly right. 

"So, what does your day look like?" Ed said, to make conversation, to stop staring. 

Jack hesitated. "This morning it's a unit on ethical responsibilities during internal investigations, facilitated by the center for professional responsibility, criminal justice section; and for the afternoon it's a year-end review for the section of administrative law and regulatory practice, culminating in a discussion of the by-laws of the governing body." He grinned. "Utterly fascinating, I'm sure." 

Ed took a sip of coffee, as the disorientation overwhelmed him. He had no idea what Jack had just described, or whether the guy was even speaking English. Ed shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "I hope _you_ find it worthwhile, anyway. This evening? Time to socialize and network, I assume?" 

Jack hesitated again, this time for a second longer. "It's always time to socialize and network. As you saw last night--" 

"Yeah, and with the campaign starting soon, seems like the more you can do that, the better." He ate the last bite of waffle; it was cold. He felt suddenly awkward, when there had been nothing at all awkward during this morning after. Nothing. He wanted to see Jack later; he wanted Jack to make an offer, make a move. The man's face was starting to pinch. 

"Ed--" Jack said, and then stopped. 

Ed checked his watch; it was five minutes to eight. "I've gotta get home and get my stuff for work. We'll talk later?" He waited for Jack to say something, but the man simply nodded. Ed stood and went to the closet near the door, retrieving his leather jacket. Jack followed him. 

"Ed-- Yes, we'll talk later. I'd like that," Jack said in a low voice. 

Ed finished slipping on his jacket, giving the pockets a quick pat down to be sure he had his wallet and keys. He finally met Jack's glance directly; it was penetrating. Ed's sense of disorientation resurged. He moved closer to Jack and hugged him; Jack held him tightly, then let go. 

"Later, then," Ed said, because he did not know what else to say, and he could not prolong this departure further. He stepped away and opened the door, saying "Bye," over his shoulder. Jack's gaze was back at penetration level as he said, "Bye," in response. Ed left, closing the door behind him. 

##

Jack continued to stand near the door, warring impulses duking it out inside his head. Open the door and call Ed back and make concrete plans for some hours here, or there, or god knew where; leave it be and wait until later, going with the flow of whatever Ed might want. As a minute ticked by, he was more and more sure that the war was not a good sign. He rarely behaved so wishy-washy. He had had times like this, certainly, in the past, when the person he was getting involved with meant a great deal to him. When the involvement was exactly that - involvement. Nothing casual. Nothing one-nighter-ish. He felt the pull, deep behind his solar plexus, imagining Ed as he walked away, aching to have him back. 

##

Ed poked the "down" button repeatedly, with increasing force. He was trying hard not to analyze his actions, to think about why he had left so abruptly, or why he was angry, or maybe frustrated, or whatever the hell was going on with him. Thomas, his old high-rise bud, could likely diagnose his problem given the opportunity. Thomas was always going on about individual responsibility in interpersonal issues, but that was because he had done some training thing down the coast somewhere at an institute Ed refused to remember the name of. Maybe Ed should have ignored his needier side last night and once the sex was over, got up and left. Like usual. Maybe it would have been better if he had not slept with Jack. Had not woken up with him. Had not had a warm and fuzzy half hour when the other man was still asleep and Ed was free to lie on his chest and feel his heartbeat. To think about the past. Think about missed chances. Regrets. 

Ed finally heard a rumbling hum and stepped to the railing. The glass elevator was on its way up from the lobby. He watched it rise two floors. Maybe it would have been better if he had simply said what was on his mind this morning: He wanted Jack's next two days to be _their_ two days. He wanted as much time as-- 

The elevator door suddenly slid open in front of him, and Jean Piccone walked off, a newspaper under her arm. She looked shocked to see him, and he was so wrapped up in his own head that it took him a moment to register that, and understand it. She knew Ed had gone up to Jack's room the night before, and here he was, leaving the following morning. He plastered a smile on his face. "Good morning," he said, and traded places with her, and hit the One button. 

"Good morning," she said, and he could have sworn that she was forcing a smile on her own face. 

The elevator doors closed. He sighed. He hoped she was as good a friend to Jack as he had been told years before, during that god awful case. One thing that rarely sat well with the public when voting for elected officials was any whiff of the gay, and the very last thing he wanted to do was screw up Jack's life. He would do something drastic before letting that happen. 

##

It was time for the midmorning coffee break, and Jack was only too glad for the chance to walk around, stretch his legs, maybe have a quiet few minutes to himself. He left the meeting room but instead of heading for the amenities table, he went the opposite way - he thought he had seen a door to the outside further down the hall. He was correct, finding a sun-filled patio with ample seating, surrounded by the hotel on two sides and the building next door on another. It felt good to get some fresh, crisp October air in his lungs; it was good to feel the heat of the sun on his face. He pulled out his phone, checking for messages. There were none. He was disappointed. Ed was a mere five blocks away, at this exact moment, and it was incredibly heady to imagine walking away from this conference directly to Ed's classroom, surprising the man with... something. Lunch? 

"Jack, you've found a nice spot," Jean's voice came from behind him. 

He was disappointed again; privacy was not to be his, it seemed. He turned around, deliberately smiling at her, because it wasn't her fault that he was preoccupied; she was his friend; in years past they had enjoyed these ABA meetings together. Socialized together. "Felt like getting some air," he said. 

"It's a beautiful day," she said, "and hard to sit inside and concentrate. I sometimes feel like an unruly school kid during these things. My mind wanders. Maybe they should have picked some place like Duluth, Minnesota. This city makes it so much harder." 

"True. But I, for one, would have a hard time getting myself to go if it were in some place like Duluth. I've actually been to Duluth." 

Jean shrugged. "And I can't imagine that there would be as much temptation to stray outside one's normal way of life, there - to have a fling. Go crazy. You know, that old 'convention affair' kind of thing." 

Jack looked hard at her. Jean was not a person to go obtuse on a man, but-- "Are you thinking of having a fling, if that word even means what it used to? Have I missed something?" 

"It's funny you should put it like that - have you missed something. I think you have, but that's not really my point." She paused. "I ran into Detective Green this morning. At the elevator on our floor. He was heading down, at eight o'clock in the morning." 

His stomach turned over. "I see," he said. "Or maybe I should say, I think I see. You've never hedged with me before, Jean, so what exactly are you saying? You want to know if Ed spent the night in my room? Why not just ask me?" 

A wash of pink appeared on her cheeks. "You're right, Jack. I've never done that with you... Or, at least not, well--" She cleared her throat. "Okay, did he spend the night with you? Are you having an affair with him?" 

Now that he had the opening, he almost hesitated. He had never bothered to talk to her about his past sexual relations with men; it simply never came up. Today? He felt too old to self-censor; there was no point. "First of all, to clarify, Ed's not a cop anymore, so 'Detective' doesn't apply. But, yes, he spent the night with me. I don't know what you mean by _affair_ , nor do I--" He shrugged, frustrated, put on the spot only in regard to definition. "We're involved. In something." 

Jean folded her arms, sighing harshly. "Why haven't you ever said anything about an interest in men? Did you think I would judge you? _Me?_ I should really be offended, Jack." She turned away from him, looking to the glass doors, and he felt a touch of guilt creep in and was about to answer her when she whipped her head around and pointed at him. "Forget about me - what in god's name were you _thinking?_ Are you _crazy?_ You have a campaign starting as soon as you get back to New York! Shalvoy would _love_ to get his hands on this--" 

"It's nobody's business! And, who the hell's going to tell him?! It's not like I'm making out with Ed in the middle of Market Street!" 

She waved a hand in the air. "It's usually the _other party_ to the affair who goes to the tabloids, and hands over photos, or recordings, or _some_ such stuff." 

He stared at her in disbelief. At least she had the grace to look vaguely embarrassed as well as defiant. He was too angry to respond; no way would he defend Ed's character - the man did not need it. "My break is over," he finally said, before turning heel to walk back into the building. Once he was again in his seat, he sent Ed a text message, asking if he was free for lunch. 

##

Ed read the text from Jack at the end of his morning session. A spot of sweet relief blossomed in his gut, and spread - Jack had asked to see him, and as early in the day as possible. Unfortunately, he had to decline the invitation. There was a staff meeting scheduled over lunch that day, in order to discuss some changes to PI licensing that were probably coming down the road when a certain state senator had his way in Sacramento. Ed responded, asking about dinner, instead. 

##

Jack had no choice but to say, "No," to Ed since he was already scheduled for an ABA dinner with the same group of people with whom he would spend the afternoon. It was due to be a long dinner; it would probably be mostly social and little business. He did have some obligations to fulfill here, and politicking was one of them. He had rarely felt resentful about it in the past, or today, but, he had held feelings for Ed for so _long_ , and now the line had been crossed, and together they seemed good--honestly, the night before had been fantastic--and it felt as if all of it would slip through his grasp if he did not hold on tightly. Like it already was slipping through his grasp. His plane reservation was the day after tomorrow, and it was impossible to change given his obligations back home. 

He pulled out the conference schedule from his folder and studied it, sighing to himself. The smart thing to do was make a more concerted effort to return to his earlier pledge: think only as far ahead as the next hour. He dragged his attention back to the men and women in the room, and focused on their words, and tried not to remember hot, dark skin sliding against his own. 

##

"Hey, Carl," Ed called to the gray-haired man heading for the stairway, who turned around, waiting for Ed to catch up. "Thanks, man," Ed said when he reached his side. "It's about your vacation coming up in a couple of weeks. Sydney tells me you don't have coverage for Criminal Defense?" 

Carl shrugged. "Nope. And she tells me that you're not interested. Something about your mindset?" He grinned. "Nothing wrong with it as far as I can tell, other than you thought New York City was a good place to live." 

Ed allowed him the joke, giving him a smile. "Yeah, I know - heaven is here, right? So, if I cover your class, do you already have lesson plans? I'm trying to gauge how much extra work it would be...." 

##

Jack had just slipped the keycard into its slot when Jean's voice called to him from down the corridor, the direction of the elevators. At the end of the afternoon session, he had walked out with a man from Los Angeles, a colleague with whom he had served on a panel the year before. He had not seen Jean leave. Though he was not deliberately ignoring her, he would have been glad to have the next hour before dinner to himself. Privacy was still an elusive commodity, it seemed. He turned to her and said hello. 

"Jack, can we talk?" Her visage was serious. "Please?" 

"Sure," he said, and opened his door. What choice did he really have? He led her inside, dropping his leather portfolio and keycard on the dresser before steeling himself to apologize - what, he assumed, she was here for. In truth, he did not begrudge it - especially if it would keep their friendship intact. "This morning--" 

" _No,_ Jack, you look like you're about to apologize for stomping off, and it should be me who apologizes. I'm sorry." 

"'Stomping off' is a bit of hyperbole, don't you think?" 

She crossed arms in front of her stomach, as if holding her suit jacket closed. "Are we going to talk semantics? Fine - you _walked_ off. Will you accept my apology?" 

"Of course," he said. 

Her stance relaxed; her fingers stopped gripping the beige linen covering her sides. "Thank you," she said, and tucked her hair behind one ear, glancing over Jack's shoulder for a moment. She continued, "I think we've known each other long enough to be one hundred percent honest, don't you? Well, this morning, I wasn't honest with you." 

She hesitated. He nearly groaned aloud - he did not want to get into something intense, not again. Especially not with Jean, for pity's sake. They rarely argued; they rarely had more than an intellectual difference of opinion. A few times--this morning being one--she had insisted her opinion of Jack's choices were somewhat more valid than his own. But, all in all, they certainly did not have an emotionally volatile relationship, and he relied on that status quo. 

Jean cleared her throat. "It's very simple, Jack, when you get right down to it. I was ... jealous." She shrugged. "A normal human response between a man and a woman. Don't you think?" 

He was stunned. But-- It was likely wrong to assume she meant jealous-jealous when she probably meant jealous like a person gets when their friend's time is suddenly dominated by another friend. "Look at it this way," he said, trying to appease, "you'll have more opportunities to do things with me back home in New York than Ed will." As soon as the words had formed a small ache blossomed in his chest at the image of Ed, here, and him, there. 

Pink filled her cheeks. "No, Jack," she said in a quieter tone, "you've misunderstood. I'm jealous that you're getting involved with someone." The pink deepened. "Someone other than me." She lifted a hand. "Don't misunderstand--" 

"What's to misunderstand? That.... Misunderstand.... _what?_ " 

She looked down her nose at him. "You could let me finish, and maybe you'd find out what. I'm not looking for deep, abiding, passionate love. Just something like 'friends with bennies.' You know what I mean." 

He could think of no immediate response. He could not imagine going to bed with her; of even wanting to go to bed with her. Even as a "friend with bennies." She was just Jean. Long time, dear friend Jean, widow of another old, dear friend. A man he still missed. 

"It's okay, Jack. The bottom line is that I shouldn't have let my emotions interfere. I shouldn't have criticized your boyfriend." She shook her head. "That was uncalled for." 

He almost laughed, and felt his own cheeks fill with heat. "He's not my boyfriend. It's casual, between us." 

Jean let slip a noise of disbelief from deep in her throat. "Your reaction was nothing close to 'casual.'" 

"Reaction?" 

"Yes, you know - the stomp-off, this morning. The anger. The--" 

"So, we're back to 'stomping off'? I did not stomp off!" 

"Yes, you did! And it's perfectly understandable! And I'm _sorry!_ Good grief. You want to claim this is casual, fine. My only point is that it certainly does not look casual from my perspective." 

Given that she had only seen them together once, briefly, in the bar last night, he had doubts that she had any kind of worthwhile perspective. 

"Jack," she continued in her earnest voice, "people who are only casually involved with another person do not get so angry on that person's behalf." She sighed. "Okay. I'm going to go get ready for dinner. I'll meet you downstairs in--" She glanced at her watch. "--twenty," and with that she kissed him on the cheek and left before he replied to anything she had said. 

While he cleaned up, and changed out of jeans into something a little nicer, he mulled over what Jean claimed, and how he felt, and--once more--what he wanted and how he would make that happen. Of course, he did not have strictly casual sex with Ed; he couldn't, given how he felt about the man. But, it was strictly necessary to behave as if he had no expectations beyond the next hour, or two, or five, because otherwise getting on that plane would be too tough. Tougher than he wanted. And, looking at things honestly, he did not know what Ed felt, or wanted, or expected - whether or not he thought about this as "friends with bennies," or something deeper. They had never said. Given all of that--not to mention the upcoming campaign and its limitations on a candidate's personal life--the best approach might be to keep his emotions in check as much as humanly possible. He was well-practiced in that skill; he had already been doing it for years where Ed was concerned. So, if he had the chance to see him again, he would take it without hesitation. More importantly, without expectations. 

As he headed to the elevators, something came to him: if Jean was so sure that all she wanted was a casual sexual relationship, why did she get jealous? That seemed fairly emotionally invested. She, who thought she knew everything about human nature.... 

##

Ed signed the report and saved it to his hard drive; as the laptop did its thing with the file, he glanced at the clock display. It was eight-thirty. He was nearly finished with his work for Wright's - one final database check on a different prospective employee, then a notation in her report, then send two standard emails with attachments to Wright's for their files... in a half hour he would be free. Easy. Everything was going, so far, according to plan. He picked up the BlackBerry and with blood quickening its pace deep inside he sent a text to Jack: "I want to see you. Come to your room? 9:30?" He set down the device and logged into the Oregon State Police DB. He was typing in the search box when the BlackBerry pinged; butterflies hit his stomach. He read Jack's response. It was possible that if Sean were in the room, he would be ragging Ed mercilessly to see him grinning so hard. Ed felt like he had just won the lottery. What the fuck did Sean know about wanting someone so badly it hurt, about needing to see someone so badly you didn't care what time it was, about wanting to do a million nice things for that person because they deserved every single one of them and it was an honor to simply _do_ for them? Sean had already started needling Ed, to no effect, because-- Well, because this was about Jack. _Jack_. A man worth driving across the city for, at any time of day or night. 

Ed sent Jack a one-word reply: "Excellent." Because, it was. 

##

Jack forced himself to sit in one of the chairs at the table in his room and read something. What he picked up was a copy of a Law Review that he had been handed that day as he was supposed to give his opinion on a salient point contained therein, and since there was no way in hell he would remember anything he happened to read on said point, sitting here, waiting for Ed to arrive, he tossed the journal back in the open briefcase. Why had he neglected to pick up a local paper, or even a People magazine in the hotel gift shop? And, where the hell was his book? He got up to check the suitcase, and there was a knock on the door. He felt a flush suffuse his entire body. 

He checked the peephole, just to be certain; he grinned to see the top of Ed's head - the man was looking at the floor. Jack took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself before flinging open the door. 

"Hey," Jack said to a smiling Ed. 

"Hey," Ed said. 

Ed crossed the threshold, and without any hesitation, or sense of awkwardness, he hugged Jack, and Jack hugged him while pushing the door closed with one free hand, and in that split second, that millisecond, that _nanosecond_ as he felt Ed's strong body in his arms, and against his chest, and groin, every ounce of tension he had held throughout the day melted away as if it had never existed. All that was left was the thrum of pure desire, fueled by Ed's lips, making their way up the side of his neck, and nibbling across his jaw line to take his mouth in a toe-curling kiss, and Oh _yes_ , this was it. What he wanted, had wanted, had ached for all day. He grabbed the back of Ed's head and deepened the kisses, and Ed moaned, and pushed until Jack's back hit the wall gently, and firmly, and jesus christ and hail mary too Ed felt so damned good, right there. Right _there_. He wanted to suck Ed down his throat. He wanted to touch Ed's skin. He wanted to inhale him, down to the very fiber of his being. Jack found Ed's jean-clad ass and tugged, and their pelvises thrust together, and-- 

Ed suddenly stopped, and untangled their tongues, and pulled back enough to look him in the eye; his breathing was heavy. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice husky, and deep. "Take the day off, with me. I've made arrangements. We can drive down the coast. Spend the day together. Tomorrow night together." His eyes were pleading. 

Tomorrow.... Jack didn't think about it twice. "Yes," he said. "That sounds great." He smiled for only a second before Ed was back, kissing the smile away, devouring him. Oh, _yes_. 

##

Ed had forgotten, over the past few years, the benefits, the upsides, the intensity of sex with the same person two nights in a row. You knew where your partner's hot spots were, how to drive him to the brink, how to make him gasp in ecstasy. If you had paid attention the first time. Jack, for example, had an area on his neck, right behind his ear and in front of a mole, that if you gave the full treatment of kisses, and soft bites, and tongue, drove him a little wild. Made him writhe, and pull Ed tightly to him, until there was but a breath of air between them. For long minutes at a time, that was precisely where Ed wanted to be. For his part, he was reaping the benefits of a partner who was as smart as Jack was, quick to assess the facts in front of him, quick to take decisive action. To stroke Ed exactly how he liked it. To nibble on Ed's chest exactly where he liked it. Ed's skin was hypersensitive to every nuance of Jack's sure touch, and when Jack rolled on top of him, and they were thrusting together, and Ed was losing control at a rapid pace, Jack suddenly slowed his hips, and cupped Ed's face, brushing a heated thumb across his cheek so lightly that Ed's breath caught. Jack kissed him with a soft, gentle tenderness, and Ed's throat closed completely. He swallowed the lump away. They kissed slowly, deeply, while Ed held Jack to him, wanting nothing else in his life but to have this man right here. To never let him go. 

##

They were driving on a highway south of the city, a two-lane road that had taken them through the redwoods in the morning fog but was now winding gradually down to lower elevations as the sun was breaking through, and the forest was left behind. Shrub-covered hillsides surrounded them; every so often farm fields appeared that looked like they had been plateau'd out of the hills; every so often Jack caught a glimpse of the ocean in the far distance. He rolled down the window and inhaled the scent of salty air, smiling to himself. This morning-after had been more relaxed than the first one. It should not have been, truly, as his impending departure was closer and the tension he felt because of it more acute. But, he would look across the breakfast table at Ed enjoying his food in between chatting about where they were going, and for all of Jack's anxiety he still felt as if he was living out a remarkable dream he had never, ever allowed himself to envision, and the tension would melt away. 

Ed was looking for pumpkin farms along the highway. Halloween was in a couple of weeks, and his roommate had tasked Ed with buying pumpkins for a party they would be hosting. Something about carving faces of their friends, though Jack had difficulty imagining that anyone could do that with enough finesse that people would be recognizable in the peaks and crevices of pumpkin rind. Whatever, he didn't care. He didn't care about the workshops he was missing, or the contacts he could be developing, or-- anything, really, except enjoying this day. Enjoying the sun. Ed's smile. The Pacific ocean, from its shore. 

##

It wasn't that Ed was miffed Sean had asked him to buy stupid pumpkins, it was only that he didn't want to take the time to do it. Not today. He parked the car in the gravel lot and finally had the chance to really look at the place Sean had recommended. Holy shit. Halloween kitsch on 'roids was _everywhere_. He glanced at Jack, relieved to see him grinning rather than rolling his eyes or, worse yet, sighing in disgust. 

"Wow," Jack said. 

"That's one way to put it," he said. He pointed to the field off to their right, where row upon row of pumpkins sat in the bright sun amid desiccated, dead vines. "I'm heading straight out there. Start grabbing. Quick and dirty." 

They got out of the car as a mini van filled with children pulled in a few spaces away. Its windows were open; Ed could hear young, excited voices punctuated by two adults stating rules. The van's doors opened en masse; the occupants spilled out, and as children ran toward the field, a man and a woman smiled at Ed and Jack before calling after their charges, following them with a joint shrug of tired shoulders. Ed walked toward the flatbed carts for one to use. Halfway there, Jack clutched his forearm, stopping his progress. 

"They have a maze," he said with a lift of his bushy eyebrows. "Could be fun." 

Thank god he was kidding. "No," Ed said. 

"Hay ride?" 

"No." 

"Apple bobbing?" 

"No." 

"Where's the freewheeling guy who would try anything?" 

"He grew up," Ed said, with an inward sigh. "He learned the hard way that risk-taking behavior ain't a good way to live." 

Jack's mouth tensed to a line. "Ed--" 

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't have taken that so seriously," Ed said, shaking his head. 

"Sensitive topic, I know." Jack took Ed's hand in both of his. "So, the old Ed would go apple bobbing, and new Ed takes care of his roommate's shopping? Where's the I'm off from work for a relaxing and maybe fun day Ed?" 

Ed looked down at their joined hands and back into Jack's face. The sunlight made his eyes appear pale green; it highlighted the white of his hair, the lines etched in his cheeks. Ed ached to kiss him. "You're right, Jack." He smiled, and felt it. "But, the old Ed would never be caught dead apple bobbing." 

"There's always face painting," Jack said with an answering smile. 

The picture of Jack getting his face painted with who knew what Halloween symbol was enough to make him chuckle aloud. He shook his head. "No way. Besides... You? Uh uh. You are way too distinguished." He pulled out of Jack's grasp and thumbed behind him. "Come on. Let's get a cart." He walked, but after a few steps he sensed Jack's pace had slowed. He glanced at him - Jack's face was a blank; he was biting one corner of his bottom lip. "What?" 

Jack focused on him. "Nothing." He smiled, but Ed was not sure it was sincere. "How many pumpkins do you need?" Jack said. 

"Six." 

"Size?" 

"Two large and four medium-ish. You sure you're okay?" 

"I'm good. Before we go, I want to go into the gift shop, or whatever it's called." 

They reached the flatbed carts. "Cool," he said. Jack smiled again, and Ed responded with one of his own. They headed into the field, pushing the cart over rough, hard soil. 

##

Jack had wandered down one of the rows, studying the pumpkins as he went. There was more variety in color and shape than he had expected, and Ed wanted the last one to have as long a stem as they could find, the curlier the better. Jack had thought a few minutes to think to himself would be a good idea, but the more he wandered, the less helpful _thinking_ was. He was losing his perspective again, his self-imposed promise to keep things casual and expectations to a minimum. He was trying to forget his reaction to Ed's description of him as "distinguished." It wasn't working. Distinguished was a word that invariably applied to old men. _Old men_. Yeah, he was older. Yeah, he had attained a professional level of some import after decades of hard work. Yeah, he was a little wiser than he had been at one point in his life. Distinguished? Really? He stopped walking and turned his face to the sun, hands resting in jeans' pockets as he looked out over the hillside. He inhaled the ocean-laced fresh air. Reminded himself to try, _try_ to trust that Ed was not with him for this brief fling because of some kind of daddy-complex. Jack did not want to be anyone's daddy. He wanted to be someone's lover. On equal terms. 

##

Ed used his BlackBerry's camera to surreptitiously take photos of Jack, standing quietly by himself. He thought at least one of them was going to be a very nice picture, suitable for printing and, depending on... stuff, maybe framing. It was the click of the last one that caught Jack's attention; he whipped his head around. Ed snapped again, what the hell, that one could be pretty cool. "Thanks," he said. He scrolled through them. Yes, the last one was damned good. 

Jack joined him; his cheeks were pink. "Can I borrow that?" 

Ed held the phone to his chest. "You're not going to erase anything. Right? I trust you." He looked down his nose. "Right?" 

Jack huffed a short chuckle. "No, I'm not going to erase. But my phone takes shit photos. And maybe I'd like one of you, too. If you don't mind emailing it to me." 

Ed tried to act cool as he handed over the phone. He shook his head. "No problem." He suddenly felt embarrassed. "Where do you want me?" 

Jack's voice dropped to his husky range. "Oh, Ed, now _that_ is a loaded question. The back seat of your car? The beach? Your apartment?" He let that hang in the air for a charged moment, then grinned, and pointed to the cart. "Sit there, among your friends." 

Ed's mind was still stuck on the beach or back seat, or a combination of those two, not to mention what Jack's sex-filled voice did to his insides. God, please grant him the strength to make it through the next twenty-four hours with his sanity intact. He sat on the cart. 

Jack tsked. "How 'bout a pose? Or a smile?" 

He didn't know from posing, but he could smile, and he could most assuredly smile at the man holding the camera. Ed had often been told that in matters personal, he was an easy read. Everything showed on his face. He smiled his best, infusing it with all that he felt for Jack. Lust was easy, but, there was more. Much more. He hoped the lens caught it. 

##

This ocean side town reminded Jack of places in Connecticut, where tourist-oriented businesses sit beside high-end shops--specialty wines; artisan furniture; boutique clothing--that cater to locals. Come buy a kite to fly at the beach, or a pumpkin festival tee shirt, but don't forget that only the well-off can actually afford to live in as beautiful a town as this. As they drove down Main Street, Jack had one eye out for a Starbucks for Ed, who was craving a drink that could only be found there. They saw more than one bakery advertising coffee, but the closest to Starbucks was a coffee bar named _Java Joint_. 

Walking through the door it was immediately apparent that this place had been here since the counterculture days. Worn wooden tables and chairs sat next to built-in benches that looked like they were last reupholstered circa 1985; the seats were about half-filled with customers. A vaguely musty smell mingled with the scent of coffee. There was a large, hanging plant in the front window that trailed around the room, near the ceiling. Woven into its vines was a string of orange jack-o'-lantern lights. Dark, roughhewn paneling was covered with brightly colored paintings of various sizes and subjects; prominent above the register was one of a coffee mug with a marijuana leaf on its side. 

Ed was studying the chalkboard menu. Jack nudged him, and pointed to the painting. "Java Joint," he said. 

Ed grinned. "They've created their own versions of Starbucks' drinks - claim you'll like 'em better. You don't think they've added a little weed, do you?" 

"California's not quite _that_ liberal. I don't think." 

"Good." Ed was still grinning. "I tend to, um, well the last time I had any was way back--" 

" _Before_ the Force, I assume?" 

"Of course!" Ed looked like he had been sucker-punched. "You think I'd do drugs as a cop?" 

Jack's stomach dived, as surging defensiveness warred with self-disgust. He exhaled with deliberate effort. "I don't think that, Ed. Long habit of believing the worst about cops. Not you." He reached for Ed's shoulder; the man didn't move away; he squeezed, and repeated his words, and moved his hand to Ed's chest, and repeated them again. Finally, Ed's face relaxed; he gave a brief nod. 

"Can I help you?" A young woman appeared from somewhere beyond the counter. Jack moved away while Ed ordered; he only wanted a bottle of water and Ed would handle it. He glanced around; the other patrons had paid them no mind. He left, for some air. What the hell had he been thinking? Sometimes shit came out of his mouth on autopilot these days, and sometimes he wondered if it was a function of his age, or what. Did he really make some illogical leap in his mind, or, was there a part of him that actually did think Ed would have behaved so stupidly? He knew Ed was a good cop; he thought he had resolved any judgments about Ed's gambling habit long ago. About Ed's troubles. Long ago, and without reservation. 

##

They were back in the car, heading up Main to the crossroad that would eventually take them to the beach, and then to lunch. Ed had found a restaurant with good online reviews that was right on a frontage road about ten yards from the sand. It had an outside patio with a glass wind wall. It was exactly the kind of place he wanted to take Jack. A place that would be a good memory for Jack, of California, and hopefully of him. 

In the next block he saw a group of people holding campaign signs. Familiar yellow, fucking disgusting signs. The people were waving their arms at passing cars, and yelling, and smiling, and laughing as they disrupted the peace and quiet of this small town. He had a brief fantasy of driving directly at them, scaring the shit out of them. The car windows were down because it had turned into a pleasantly warm, sunny day. He didn't want to hear their BS when he drove by, which he was forced to do, so he hit the window buttons. Jack looked at him. 

"Sorry, Jack. See those people?" He pointed at the group. "Those assholes, I mean? Their shouts are not going to pollute my space." 

Jack looked up the block. "I've seen a few Proposition 8 signs downtown. A few meaning four, at most, and in high windows." 

Ed let out a noise of disgust. "Too high to throw a rock through, I bet." 

Jack looked at him askance, eyebrows lifting. 

"And," Ed said, "don't go sayin' anything about the First Amendment, Jack, because I don't wanna hear it. Yeah, they can hold their damned signs, but they're spewing hate speech, and as far as I'm concerned that's going too far." He was forced to stop at a red light, three cars back from the corner. He focused on the car ahead of him so he would not have to look at the haters, so happy to be hating, so pleased with themselves. It turned his stomach. 

"I don't think 'Save our families' is hate speech," Jack said in a tone of voice Ed recognized: careful and serious. 

"Yeah, well you haven't seen their TV ads, about how poor little missy is getting indoctrinated in grade school by the evil teachers who are shoving it down her poor little throat that gay people have rights. Save poor little missy's threatened life! Hate mongering assholes. Mormon ones, to boot! Fucking cult...." The driver in front of him rolled down his window and shouted something nasty to the small crowd, some of whom laughed in response while shoving their signs in his direction. The driver replied with something unintelligible. A woman said something back. The driver flipped her off. 

Jack sighed loudly. "I take your point. It's infuriating, I agree." 

Ed looked at him. Jack was watching the confrontation, almost too carefully. Ed said, "You don't agree with it being 'hate speech,' though, do you?" 

Jack met his glance. "Do you want to have a technical discussion about the legal definition of 'hate speech'? We could do that. But, it doesn't _matter_ , Ed." He pointed to the crowd. "They are infuriating, hate-filled, homophobes. They're idiots. If we got out of this car and walked up to them and made out they would be apoplectic with horror and rage...." 

The car in front of them moved; the light had changed. Ed followed, rolling down the windows again. 

Jack said in a low voice, "No matter what happens in the election, eventually, maybe ten years from now, everything will change for the better." 

Ed had heard that from any number of people, both recently and throughout his lifetime. He knew the quotes from civil rights leaders. He knew how far things had progressed, and how long change can take. He knew it all. It did not help. He turned off Main Street, finally, and pointed the car away from the center of this small community, toward the ocean, toward a beach a few miles down the road. 

"Is that something you want, Ed? Find some nice man and get married? Legally?" 

Ed glanced at the man. He could see in Jack's face this was a loaded question; he felt it was loaded. He didn't know how to answer. Who would that someone be, if not the guy sitting next to him? Could it ever be Jack? It seemed unreal to contemplate. Even if he _did_ or _didn't_ want to marry a man.... "I don't know," Ed said in the charged silence. 

Jack nodded, and looked out through the open window. 

Ed wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He had given an honest answer. But, was it the truth? 

##

The beach was a miles-long strip of pebbly sand bordered by low, grass covered dunes. The fog bank sat far offshore, like a wall of white cotton waiting to roll in and smother the coast. There were people here and there, walking in pairs or alone, running with and without dogs, sitting on blankets, sitting on the sand. Jack and Ed were the only ones trying to play frisbee catch. It appeared that Californians knew when it was too windy to successfully throw a frisbee. Ed did not. Or, Jack thought, he was merely too stubborn to give in. Not that he minded the sight of Ed in jeans and a blue, v-neck tee running across the sand, and, run he did given the frisbee's propensity to take off no matter how Jack threw it. He used to be fairly decent with a frisbee, back in his college days. Ed was not bad, either, for the most part, and even if they looked like the world's worst players, they were having fun. 

Jack waited for Ed's toss, but it was not going to make it even halfway, and while Jack was running forward the frisbee suddenly veered toward the water. Ed shouted something. A large, black Labrador appeared from behind Jack, startling him, racing for the frisbee; the dog leapt and caught it, landing in the surf's edge, turning on a dime to run back through the water to its owner, a young man with flaming red hair, walking in their direction. But, rather than give up its prize, the dog turned again and ran toward Ed. 

Ed looked horrified to see this big, wet dog coming at him, and he held up his hands, and tried to dodge. The owner was right behind the dog yelling Sorry!s and Buster, No!s, and Jack was right behind them both, trying his damnedest not to laugh aloud. Ed lunged to his left just as the owner caught Buster by the collar, Buster missing Ed by less than three feet. 

"Buster, give!" the man said. Buster was wagging his tail furiously, looking from the man to Ed and back again, frisbee firmly locked in his jaws. The man said to Ed, "Hold out your hand, and he'll drop it, otherwise you'll be playing tug-of-war for the next half hour. Sorry," he added with a sheepish shrug. 

Ed grimaced with disgust as he looked at the now-slobbery frisbee. "Uh, that's okay, dude," he said slowly, his glance shifting to the man. "Buster can keep it." He lifted a hand. "Really." He tried a smile, but the grimace was still evident. "He did helluva lot better than we were managing. He's a natural." 

The man smiled, and said Thanks, and Buster made a move to shake; Ed and Jack moved simultaneously to avoid the shower. After shaking off, dog and owner jogged further down the beach, frisbee still lodged tight in Buster's mouth, while Ed watched them and Jack watched him. Ed's grimace was merely a curl of lip by now; Jack grinned, swallowing a laugh at Ed's expense, but, really, a tough guy undone by a wet Lab? Ed turned to him, now relaxed, and Jack felt a surge of desire, an ache so deep he could hardly breathe. He reached for Ed, cupped his face, and kissed him hard, and soft, and penetrating, and passionately. Ed held tight and gave it all back to him. For that long, dizzying moment the surf, and the wind, and the sun, and the people faded away to pinpricks of silence. For that overwhelming moment the only thing real was what existed between the two of them, in their dark, sweet, hot need. 

##

Ed was more than satisfied that he had found the right place for them to eat a late lunch. The entire experience had been nearly perfect, from the patio setting to the service to the food. Jack had tried to pay, briefly, but Ed prevailed and was glad of it. It was his treat, his gift. The least he could do. And, for the duration of the meal, he had actually forgotten how many hours had passed since they escaped the city, and how many more they had left, together. Walking out of the restaurant to the car, he remembered, because now they would head back to San Francisco where their evening would start, before their last night together, before Jack got on a plane in the morning. When Ed would be alone, here, and Jack would be there. 

Jack touched the back of Ed's shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. "Thank you," Jack said. "Good food, great view of the ocean, excellent company," he finished with a smile. 

Ed nodded. "You're welcome. I agree on all points." They reached the car, but Ed stopped them from getting in. "Do you want to take the long way back, or the way we came? Long way takes us along the ocean, mostly...." He had never driven it, but, Sean had explained the ins and outs of driving the coast highway back up to the city. He had his map, just in case. 

"Driving along the ocean sounds terrific. Aside from today, I've only seen a tiny bit of the coast in the city itself. Always wanted to see more of it. We've got the time, so why not?" Ed could only nod again and try to smile, though it was difficult. While Jack walked around to the car's passenger side, Ed unfastened his watch and placed it carefully in his jeans' pocket. As he pulled the car away from the curb, he saw Jack notice that his wrist was bare. The man said nothing, but placed a hand on the back of Ed's neck, caressing it gently for a minute or two. Ed's throat tightened in response. 

##

Jack followed Ed up the stairs, with a small pumpkin under each arm, watching his step with one eye on the view ahead - Ed's ass moving beneath blue denim. If anyone had ever had a notion of what, precisely, went through Jack's mind since the early spring of 2003 they would have been surprised how many times he had considered Ed's ass: every time he saw the man. Now, he knew it intimately. His fingers itched to touch. 

Ed let them into the apartment he shared with the mysterious Sean. Ed had been fairly reticent about his roommate and longtime friend - the only data Jack had was that Sean worked at a large CPA firm downtown, and that Ed had the option to share the apartment for as long as he wanted. Rent was pricey here, too. Jack tried not to press too hard about Ed's future plans - how long he would stay in San Francisco; whether or not he would sell his New York City condo.... It was the etceteras that made him queasy. 

Jack looked around, briefly. This was an old fourplex building, and the living room showed it, with a stone fireplace, a large, bay window overlooking the street, a cove ceiling, and hardwood floors. Ed told him to set the pumpkins down on the hearth. 

"I didn't ask earlier," Jack said, "which one of these is supposed to be made into you?" 

Ed chuffed with a roll of his eyes. "Don't know and don't wanna know." 

"Because?" 

"The guy who does the carving supposedly--according to one or two sources--likes to go for caricature, and I am _not_ interested in how he'll fuck with my face. I hope he'll forget me entirely since we've only met once, at a bar, and he was drunk." Ed smiled. "If he does me and I don't like it, I have a contingency plan." 

Jack laughed. "Let me guess - mysterious disappearance, no known explanation." 

Ed pointed at him. "You got it. Come on, one more load." On the way back down the stairs, Ed asked with what sounded like deliberate casualness, "How do you want to spend your last evening in San Francisco? We could go for a drink, see some sights...." 

"Honestly," Jack said, grabbing Ed's arm at the door to stop their progress. "I would rather stay in, maybe watch a movie? A quiet time." 

Ed nodded slowly, a small grin forming. "Yeah. I'd like that, too. Sean is gone for the night--" He paused. "--and if we get hungry for some dinner later there are places within walking distance...." 

Jack thought that sounded like exactly what he wanted, and told him so. He had seen enough of San Francisco this trip and others before. It was not the city that interested him tonight. Not tonight. 

##

One of the things that Sean was good for, Ed admitted, was his extensive DVD collection. The guy was a movie freak for all genres. He and Jack pored over the possibilities and settled on a classic Bogart noir, one he had not seen in at least ten years. They sat together on the couch to watch, an arrangement that took no negotiation at all, which was fine by Ed because he was feeling just anxious enough to need things easy and smooth. Apparently, Jack was on the same page because he relaxed into the cushions as close to Ed as humanly possible without sitting on his lap, which was also fine by Ed because it allowed him a tiny, and needed, pretense that they were a couple, hanging together on a normal evening at home. A scenario he had not imagined would apply again, in any way, in his lifetime. A scenario he had not imagined would apply, in any way, to Jack, and him. He shied away from continuing that train of thought, instead concentrating on the feel of Jack's hand in his, his thigh and shoulder pressed up against his. 

The movie plot progressed, as they do, when something unexpected happened. The silly girl in it was revealed to be a compulsive gambler. Ed had forgotten that part, unsurprisingly so, given the movie's convolutions. He felt uncomfortable. Exposed. Then again... the last time he had even thought about his gambling addiction was during the long dinner conversation with Jack, two nights ago, and the time before that was... he had to think... _Winnemucca_. Yeah, he realized, that long ago... and, there was unfinished business-- 

He picked up the remote and paused the movie. "I need to confess, Jack." 

Jack turned his head; bushy eyebrows raised and concern on his face. "Okay...." 

"Do you remember the call I made to you, when I was in Winnemucca?" 

Jack smiled. "Yes, I believe I do," he said, with a gently teasing tone. 

That made him feel both happy and a little foolish for asking in the first place. "Well, good, and there's something you don't know about that call. Why I made it." He proceeded to explain his dilemma that evening, his struggle to avoid the casinos that seemingly surrounded him. "It helped to talk to you, then; it got me into the pizza place and off the street. I felt okay, again." 

Jack continued to look into his eyes for a long moment before speaking. "I'm glad I could help. Even if I didn't know it at the time. But, Ed.... Why did you call _me?_ " 

The air suddenly felt charged. Like it had in the car, earlier. "You weren't emotionally invested in me, so you wouldn't guess why I was calling, and give me shit for... for not being stronger. Not being able to deal. Alone." 

Jack shifted his glance to their joined hands. "I see," he said. 

Ed was not so sure he did see - there was an undercurrent of something on the couch with them. "You would just talk to me. Like a friendly talk. A friendly voice in the wilderness, I guess," he finished. 

Jack nodded. He stroked the back of Ed's hand with his thumb; he looked directly at Ed, again. "I hope I wouldn't give you shit for having a hard time, should you find yourself in that situation." 

_In the future_ was left unsaid, but Ed heard it nonetheless. He thanked Jack. They started the movie. Still, there was the same undercurrent on the couch with them. Something more than an avoidance of any _future_ talk. He replayed the conversation in his head, trying to suss it out, like evaluating evidence after an interview. What had he missed? 

##

It was a chilly night; Jack's heavy sweater kept the fog at bay, but he hoped walking would warm him up even further. He was struck by how quiet Ed's street was - there was little car traffic and the only people they had seen so far were a young man and a young woman chatting as they walked a white terrier on a long leash. Ed did not appear bothered by the small dog; he petted it while it sniffed their legs for three seconds before moving on in search of scents more enticing than the two of them. Jack could hear cars and buses blocks away, driving up and down the major street that was their food destination. 

It was after the people and their terrier passed by that Ed took Jack's hand in his, lacing their fingers together before Jack had the chance to pull away. He fought that impulse to let go for nearly half a block, fought the many reasons to let go, like his reputation, his desire for privacy, the need to not be stared at. The fact that the last time he had held a man's hand in public he had been twenty-two and inside of a Chicago gay bar. He fought the impulse to let go because it felt damned good to hold Ed's hand; it felt liberating; it gave him a sense that this was more than a fling. More than an affair. And who would recognize him on the other side of the country? Miles away from the ABA, downtown? 

Ed, it seemed, had no urge to let go, and when they reached the brightly lit street of shops and cafes and cars he followed Ed's lead. He held tight. He smiled to himself to see that nobody paid them much attention. He smiled to himself, relaxing into their approximation of a boyfriend relationship. It felt good to be connected to Ed again, to feel the touch of Ed's fingers against his own. It felt right. 

##

"Which room is yours?" Jack said, one second after they had come through the front door. He wanted Ed naked and in bed, and sooner rather than a later he did not have. That he had wanted Ed for more than twelve hours--eleven and a half, exactly--was tough shit for him, but he was not going to waste valuable time in self-pity. He was not. 

Ed's reply was given promptly and efficiently, with a smoldering glance that flipped Jack's stomach upside-down. Ed grabbed his hand and marched them down the hall in four seconds flat, and once inside the bedroom Jack went for Ed like a man possessed, and when their mouths merged and Ed's long arms enveloped him Jack knew, deep inside, that he was. There was no escaping it. He was possessed; he was owned; he was head over heels; he had lost all semblance and manner of control. He did not care a whit. 

##

Outside of the bedroom, high above a heavy fog, was a bright, waning, full moon and a sky filled with autumn constellations. The fog pressed close, obscuring the neighborhood save what was immediately adjacent to the fourplex. This night, there was no blue moonlight shining down through the window onto the two men writhing under a wine-colored sheet. This night, their intimacy was illuminated only by the night stand clock's orange glow, and ambient light from the bathroom down the hall. 

This night, this time, their intimacy was different, and it had nothing to do with how well each had learned the other's erogenous zones, though it was clear to both that they had. Learned them exquisitely well. This time they moved together with more intensity; they thrust together with more force; they were more frantic; they spoke almost no words. Their moans were louder. Their clinches tighter. With Jack's pale, slick skin sliding against Ed's slick, dark skin they wore each other out faster, and, this time, they held each other in the afterglow longer, to stave off sleep, to keep from falling into oblivion, to experience five, or ten, or fifteen more minutes together. 

##

Ed awoke to a room filled with the light of dawn. He untangled himself from a sleeping Jack and found his watch on the night stand. It was early enough that he could take a quick shower and make coffee and throw together a breakfast before driving Jack to the hotel. He felt the tension in his gut, and tried to breathe it away before getting out of bed. Once he stood, he stretched, looking at his bed, imprinting the view to memory. Jack was on his stomach; the covers were down almost to his waist; his white-gray hair in stark contrast to the burgundy sheets. On impulse Ed grabbed his BlackBerry and took a couple of photos. For his eyes, alone. 

In the hallway, he was more than surprised to run into Sean, who looked like he had just come home. Ed had thought Sean would go straight to work. 

"Hey," Sean said, with a smile. He craned his neck to look past Ed, into the bedroom, at the bed and its occupant. 

" _Sh-h-h_ ," Ed hissed. He closed the bedroom door. 

##

Jack had awoken when Ed got out of bed, but he had not wanted to open his eyes. Not quite yet. He heard Ed move; he heard what he thought was the click of the BlackBerry's camera, and he could admit that his vanity got a boost at the idea of Ed taking a photo of him in bed. He would not have minded one of Ed, and it was too bad he had not thought of it the night before last, before-- He heard an unfamiliar voice, guessed it was Sean, heard Ed shush him. He turned his head just as the door was closing, but once closed he could still make out Ed's voice. 

"What are you _doin'_ here?" Ed said. "Thought you were heading in from there." 

"I should ask what the fuck are _you_ doin' here, Ed, I mean, damn, dude! this guy is even older than Vincent! Not to mention that other geezer, oh, whatshisname?" 

Jack's stomach dropped; his insides turned to ice. With a heart beat thundering against his ribcage, he strained to hear more, but all he could make out was Ed's tone of voice and then Sean's, and after an excruciatingly long moment, Ed's laughter. 

##

Ed hurried through the shower, worried that if Sean talked to Jack he would be rude, or even simply a little snarky. Neither of them needed any crap like that this morning. It was going to be hard enough to-- Ed turned off the water, deliberately shifting his thought processes to the list of steps needed to create a breakfast. He had to make sure Jack was up, too, or things would feel rushed and that was so not how he wanted this morning to go. 

He toweled off, shaved quickly, slapped on after shave and deodorant and headed back to his room. The door was open; he did not hear any movement inside. He entered. The room was empty. Confused, he took a quick look around. None of Jack's things were where he had left them the night before. No clothes, no cell phone, no watch, no ring. 

He dashed to the kitchen, where he could hear the radio and smell coffee brewing. Sean was pouring cereal into a bowl. There was a knife and a banana on the counter in front of him. No Jack. 

" _Sean--_ " The man whipped around. "Where's Jack?" 

Sean lifted a shoulder. "I saw him walk out the front door... about ten minutes ago." He went back to his cereal box. 

Ed's blood froze. Out the door? Gone? Sean was whistling. "Listen, _dude_ ," he said, anger flooding his senses, "what the _fuck_ did you say to him?! Huh?!" 

Sean turned around, hands on hips. "I didn't say a damned _thing_ to him, in fact I didn't even see his face, just his back. On the way OUT." 

Ed stared at him a full minute, blood pounding in his head. He had known Sean so long, he could always tell when he was bullshitting. He was telling the truth. Ed turned away, unsure what to do or what to think. The last thing Jack had said to him was right before they fell asleep. It was something innocuously sultry. In his low, gravely voice. They had plans for this morning. What the hell had happened? Did Jack want to escape a difficult good-bye? Ed went to his room, and got as far as putting on underwear and a pair of jeans before he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Did Jack want to escape the entire morning because it was not going to be difficult at all, only awkward? He felt his insides turn queasy. 

##

Jack stalked into his hotel room and grabbed the briefcase and suitcase from the closet. He emptied his pockets of cell phone and wallet and shoved them into the briefcase's inside organizer, and dug out his return ticket and placed it in an outside slot. He stripped, tossing the dirty laundry into the hotel's plastic bag, which he stuffed into a corner of the suitcase. He called room service because he was starving, told them he expected breakfast in fifteen minutes. Long enough to get clean. He kept moving forward, since he had only about an hour and a half before he was expected downstairs at the shuttle bus. He was grateful that he had done most of his packing the morning before, before he and Ed had left.... He swallowed down a harsh lump in the back of his throat and stepped into the shower. 

##

Ed thought he might be torturing himself, scrolling through photos he had taken of Jack over the past day. He was looking for some indication of what the man had been thinking, or feeling, reviewing all of their interactions outside of the bedroom because there was no doubt in his mind about _those_ , anyway. The sex had been phenomenal. The answer had to be here. Jack was not that adept at hiding his feelings. It was probably one of the qualities that had made him such a great prosecutor - juries probably read him as honest in his conviction of the accused's guilt. Ed scrolled back through the photos again, trying desperately to keep his emotions at bay, trying desperately to have faith in what he believed he knew about Jack McCoy. There was one Ed had taken on the sunny restaurant patio, over lunch, a photo of a relaxed, happy Jack. No question. Ed remembered Jack's comforting touch on the back of his neck, in the car. That was not bullshit. He was sure of it. Nothing made any sense. 

He left the camera app and went to his contacts, found Jack's cell phone, and with jangley nerves, called him. At the very least, he wanted answers. No lies. The phone rang and rang and eventually went to voicemail. He left a message. 

##

Jack stepped out of the elevator and into the bustling lobby, girding himself to be pleasant and sociable. Maybe this would be good practice for schmoozing during the campaign. His legs felt like lead and his head ached. He hoped the pill he had taken in his room would kick in soon. He made it across the tiles without seeing anyone he had to speak to; he assumed they were all at the drop off already. At the top of the escalator, he took a deep breath, then put himself and his suitcase on the step and started down. He heard the telltale noises of a crowd of people who had had fun but were happy to be heading home. Lots of talking. Lots of laughing. At the exterior door he searched the group for Jean, because at least she might be a person he could let his guard down with; even if it was only briefly, it might make him feel less helpless. Less like he would disintegrate at the slightest touch. 

Jean saw him and pulled away from the people chatting with her. "Hi! You made it," she said with a sincere smile. "They said the bus would be here soon. I wondered if you had changed your reservation, decided to stay an extra day...." Her smile faded when she reached his side. "How was your day trip? Are you feeling all right?" 

"Have a slight headache, that's all," he said. "Did I miss much yesterday?" 

She filled him in, bare bones, and he let the words wash over him. He could more fully ascertain the information when he got home, when he could think clearly. She stopped her recitation mid-sentence, looking past his shoulder, toward the street behind him. He turned his head and felt his gut twist. Ed was walking toward them with his long stride, no outward expression on his face other than eyes that caught Jack's, boring into him. Damn it. One second later, Ed was in front of him. 

"Jack," he said, his voice deep and soft. "I'm here to take you to the airport. Like I _said_ I would," he finished with a glance Jean's way. "Ms. Piccone, sorry to interrupt. Would you excuse us?" 

"Of course," Jean said, backing up one step only. Jack almost grabbed her arm in restraint. 

"Jack?" Ed was back to staring at him. "Come on." He made a move to return the way he came. 

"I'm waiting for the shuttle," he finally said, pointedly, to stand his ground and to remind Ed that they had made no plans for a drive to the airport. 

Ed moved in close, his scent forcing Jack to endure a surge of body memories. "Jack," Ed said for his ears only, " _please_ come with me. Talk to me." Ed pulled back; his eyes were pleading. 

He was frozen in indecision. Jean suddenly tugged on his arm. "People are starting to notice; I suggest you go before the gossip starts. I'll see you on the plane." He glanced at her. She was nodding, but a quick look around did not confirm her analysis. He sighed, exasperated. She thought it would be _good_ for him to go, like she could tell what was best for him. Ed was still begging. What was the worst that could happen? He could not hurt more intensely than he already did. He would never see Ed again, anyway. 

"Okay, fine," he said, and walked away from them both, toward the street. Ed caught up a moment later. Neither of them said a word as Ed led them to his car. 

##

A light rain started a mile outside of the city, so Ed slowed, hoping the other freeway drivers did the same. An accident would fuck everything up. He did not know if rain would keep the plane on the ground, or not, but looking at the sky it did not seem the rain would last long. Maybe. Not that he knew the rain patterns of Northern California. It hit him that this was his first rain, here, being the start of his first rainy season. He almost shared that, but Jack was staying completely silent, and Ed had given up trying to make small talk. His determination had not wavered. Conversation was merely postponed until he parked in the short term lot. They did not have much time, but maybe it was enough. He would grovel if he had to. Jack would open up if it was the last thing Ed ever accomplished in his lifetime. A mile later, traffic slowed to a crawl with the now steady downpour; there was an overpass sign that gave a phone number for flight information. He suggested Jack call it. Jack said his phone was in the trunk. Ed dug out his and stepped Jack through the BlackBerry buttons. Jack's plane was delayed forty-five minutes. It wasn't much of a reprieve, but, Ed would take it. 

##

Ed turned off the ignition and shifted in his seat, leaning back against the door. "So," he said. "What do I have to do to get you to tell me why you left this morning? Name it, Jack, and I'll do it." 

Jack shifted, too, to face Ed. The dashboard clock showed that he only had about a half hour before he had to get out of this car and make his way to the gate. He did not have an answer for Ed, at least in terms of some deal Ed could strike to get him to talk. It was a unique opening, though an unnecessary one; on the way here, he had reached a decision. "You don't need to do anything in particular. I'll tell you. But, first, I have a question." 

Ed shrugged. "Okay." 

"Who is Vincent?" 

Ed's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Seriously? So.... You overheard Sean, in the hall? You're jealous, or... something?" 

Jack sighed. "You're not answering the question." 

"You overheard Sean." 

"Yes. You're not answering the question." 

Ed rolled his eyes. "Fucking Sean, I swear," he muttered. "Whatever. Vincent was a guy I hooked up with earlier this summer." He lifted hands in supplication. "Nothing. One night hookup. Completely casual. I don't even have his _phone number_ ," he finished with his voice rising. "You couldn't just _ask me_ about him? You had to leave?!" 

Jack took a steeling breath. "How old was he?" 

"What?!" 

"How _old_ was he?" 

Ed's face pinched. "Shit, I don't know! Why?" His face cleared suddenly. "Wait a goddamned minute-- it's Sean's bullshit about older men, right? I don't give a crap what issues Sean has with anyone over the age of thirty, okay? He's not me - I don't care!" 

"You sure as hell do!" Jack shot back, his self-control slipping. 

Ed looked stunned. "What the fuck does _that_ mean?" 

Jack waved him off, unable to speak, looking away. The windows had fogged up; he could see nothing, not even his reflection. 

"Jack, _talk to me!_ We don't have much time, damnit, and I--" Jack looked at him. Ed's lips were in a tight line, his eyes were no longer angry, they were back to pleading. Ed cleared his throat. "I don't know what you _mean_ , Jack. Did I do something? Say something? What's going on in that brain of yours? What?!" 

Jack felt the first inkling of a resurgence of pain in his temples; he pointed at Ed. "I am not a fad, or the manifestation of a complex, or whatever need you have to date older men. I'm not _any_ of those things, and I won't be _used_ that way." 

Ed stared at him. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. He looked at the fog-coated windshield. He said in a low voice, "I've never, _ever_ thought of you like that." He met his glance. "I-- I like older men; I always have. It's not a complex. It's not anything except that I find 'em more interesting. I don't exclusively date older guys. I just-- I don't care. I went through a period when I was rabidly against the whole idea, even _after_ I had had _no_ problem with it. I was listening to the wrong people, Jack. _Then_. Don't you see?" 

"No," Jack said. "What wrong people?" 

"Does that really _matter_? Do you want to sit here and discuss all the stuff gay men think about older men?" 

Jack shook his head. "Trust me, I know most of it." 

"Well, then, what the hell difference does any of that make to me? You? The two of us? Did you even hear what I said before that?" 

"That you don't have some psychological need to be with someone older. I heard." 

Ed sighed harshly. "That I've never thought of _you_ that way." 

"No," Jack said in frustration, "I'm just too _distinguished_ to let loose and have fun." 

"Is that what this is really all about? That word?" Ed broke their eye lock, and looked down at his hands; he massaged his left palm with his right thumb, pushing hard, distorting the life line. "You should know--" His lips compressed, and he stopped punishing his palm, and looked up to meet Jack's glance for a long moment. "You should realize, remember how much I've always respected you. _Always_." 

It was a touchy subject for Jack. Ever since this crazy infatuation of his had begun, he had felt like he veered between certainty and mere hope that they held each other in mutual respect. But, it was true that he had been certain far more often than merely hoping, or wishing. At this moment, he believed Ed was sincere. Certainty washed over him. He nodded. 

Ed said, "Distinguished, respected, admired even--" He shrugged. "--that doesn't mean I think you can't have fun. Just because I can't imagine you with your face painted." A grin played on the edges of Ed's mouth. 

Jack's stomach clenched. "If Sean was pissing you off, this morning, why did you laugh? What was so damned _funny_?" 

Ed let his head drop back against the driver's window. "Fuck." He shook his head. "Must have sounded like I was laughing at your expense. Right?" Jack nodded. "Sean made some crack about the fucking _pumpkins_." 

Pumpkins? Really? Could Ed have thought of something so stupid off the cuff, here and now? He could have, but would he? 

"Jack," Ed said, his brow knitting, his voice low, again, "do you believe me? I'm not lyin' to you. I'm _not_. About _any of it_." 

Jack felt a stab in his clenched gut to see Ed--an immensely proud man--beg for trust, beg for belief. Beg _him_ for it. He was struck by a sudden shift of his feelings, an abrupt realization that he honestly did not doubt Ed's sincerity. He knew he trusted Ed. He leaned forward and took Ed's hand in his; Ed hesitated a brief moment before clutching Jack's hand tightly, a questioning look still on his face. Jack cupped Ed's cheek, smoothing his furrowed brow with a thumb; Ed's eyes closed. "I believe you," Jack said. Ed met his glance - his deep brown eyes were moist, and Jack felt another stab in his gut to see the man's emotion. He tugged the back of Ed's neck while moving in for a kiss, and when their mouths touched, and merged, he felt Ed succumb to his heartfelt apology, and they kissed slowly, and profoundly, as they should have done in Ed's bed hours earlier. 

Eventually, Ed pulled back; his face was serious again. "So, now what? We don't have much time - you willing to talk about where we stand? 'Cause I don't think I can take any more unfinished business between the two of us." 

"Where we stand?" Jack hedged. Last night this was a subject he had dreaded, but, by now, his formerly-intense urge to convince Ed to move back to New York seemed wrong. "We're on opposite sides of the country. And this has been--" He groped for the right term. 

"This has been what?" Ed's face was stony. 

Jack was embarrassingly at a loss for an apt description. He should never have brought it up in the first place. 

Ed's eyebrows shot up. "A fling? A nice hookup? But, hey, no need to define it as anything more than that, huh?" He turned in his seat, grabbed the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. 

Jack's heart hammered against his chest. He heard and felt Ed open the trunk and pull out the suitcase. The trunk lid slammed as the door had; the car shook for a long minute. Jack tried a deep breath, tried to slow his body down, tried to think through the resurgence of pain in his head. What did he want? How did he feel about Ed after the past three hours? The past twenty-four? Another great time, another great night, phenomenal sex, and a slew of complex, difficult emotions and high stress. Ed was and always had been an intense man - it was the good and the potentially bad about him. Jack wondered if maybe the past few days had been the simple fulfillment of a years-long dream, and nothing more than that - one of those amazing experiences you look back on. He wondered if Ed would be a man he would always remember with-- with-- He sighed aloud. 

But, in all honesty, what could possibly come of this in the future? Did he need this kind of complication in his life? Especially now? As he had been told, repeatedly, he had a campaign starting. He had obligations. He had a reputation to put on the line, voters to win over, a hard fight ahead to keep a job he loved. What if Ed came back to New York... what if it was only for a visit? Would discretion be possible? In the alternative, was he prepared to say good-bye to Ed? An hour ago, he had assumed he would never see him again. And, that had _hurt_ like _hell_. 

Jack looked out the back window. Ed had parked his ass against the fender; his arms were folded. That was all Jack could discern, other than time ticking by. He heaved himself out of the car and walked around to the opposite side. Ed was staring at the pavement, or his crossed feet, or nothing. Jack approached until he was standing directly in front of him. Ed looked up. Jack felt an ache at the back of his throat; Ed appeared defeated, as if he no longer had the strength to hold his shoulders back, his head up. Jack wanted to soothe him again, to remind the man that he was still a fighter. Damnit, Ed had fought all morning to get them to this point - he should keep doing it. Fight for the two of them, whatever they were or could be in the future. Jack's insensitivity had driven it right out of him. 

Jack stood closer, to Ed's left, and put a hand on Ed's chest. "I'm sorry, Ed. I don't think that what happened between you and me was just a hookup, or a fling, or anything casual. Nowhere close to that. I'd like to see you again. If you want." 

Ed let go of the crossed-arm stance, and took Jack's hand off his chest, holding it in both of his, studying Jack's hand, back and palm, tracing the shape with his long index finger. The light touch sent a frisson of remembered desire down Jack's spine. "What I want," Ed said, "is time. I want your plane to be grounded. I want to see you again. I want you to get that I won't fuck up your campaign when I come back to New York. I want you to lose so you might move out here. I want you to win 'cause you deserve it. I want a lot of things, Jack." 

Jack felt a tiny spot of relief. " _When_ you come back to New York?" 

"I'll be back for Thanksgiving." 

Jack smiled. "We'll see each other then." Ed nodded with a gentle smile; Jack felt relief blossom. "Ed, I know you don't want to fuck up the campaign. We'll figure something out. I want to figure it out." 

Ed kissed Jack's hand. "Thank you...." He looked like he was going to say something else, but, his lips pressed together, and he glanced at his watch; his face fell. 

Jack's stomach clenched. It was time, and it was going to be harder than originally imagined if the anxiety rising up inside of him was any indication. He looked around for the elevator. Ed said he would say good-bye here, if that was okay. It was, and it absolutely was not. They embraced. Jack's throat closed as Ed's clinch tightened, as their bodies pressed together. Letting go was tough; they got only far enough to fall into a desperate, hungry, wrenching kiss that was far too quick and far too intense. They managed to say good-byes, and all of the things that one person says to another in an airport parking garage, like Safe trip, and See you soon, and Call me when you land, and Thank you for everything. Jack finally walked away, looking over his shoulder once before stepping onto the elevator. Ed waved, and blessed him with a smile, too far away to read anything else in his expression. 

##

Ed sat in his parked car, holding keys in a fist. He felt like his insides were splitting in two. Right down the middle with raw, searing pain. The windows were still fogged up, nobody would see him, nobody would hear him if he gave in. He couldn't do it. Maybe later, after a few hours, he might. He had no idea what he would do to fill the rest of his day - all he knew right then was that he was free of work, and slightly queasy, or maybe he was hungry. He would take it one hour at a time. Go home for his book, then out somewhere nice to eat where he would be waited on, but, otherwise left alone. He had to call his mom and tell her he would be home for Thanksgiving, no matter what. The pain inside intensified for a long, excruciating minute, until he regained a semblance of control. Enough to do what he had to do: before leaving the airport garage, he had one more bit of unfinished business to take care of. 

##

Jack got settled in his seat on the plane, next to Jean, who simply remarked that he seemed better and hoped that he was, which was ironic since in actuality he felt like he had been kicked in the chest. There was a familiar ache deep inside, behind the solar plexus, familiar, and different. It felt more real, and more relevant, and more like it belonged precisely where it was. It hurt more than it ever had. It branded him more completely than it ever had. 

Before stashing his briefcase under the seat, he removed his phone and book. He had a fleeting idea to call the office before the attendants told him to turn off the phone for the flight's duration. There was a voicemail message. He picked it up, and hearing Ed's voice from earlier that morning pleading with him to call made the ache throb with want, burn with guilt. He also had a text message, from Ed. He opened it. 

_"I love you."_

He stared at the three words, a tidal wave of emotion looming over him. Luckily, he had the window seat - he faced the glass and closed his eyes, and swallowed so hard he couldn't breathe. When he opened his eyes again, and reread Ed's message, he half-expected it to say something banal that he had misread, but... he had imagined _nothing_. Jack knew in that precise moment what he had to tell Ed in reply, what he should have said to him an hour ago, what he should have said to him the night before, about how he had felt the day Ed called him from Winnemucca, Nevada. A long answer about truth, and a past filled with love, and hope fulfilled. A long answer about what he wanted for the future. He would start by sending three words. That was the easy part. 

  


  


  


_Fin_

  
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